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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566352">What a day when you show me love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrotjus/pseuds/carrotjus'>carrotjus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Feels, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Non-Binary Jaskier, Other, POV Alternating, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but it's complicated, jaskier is a war god, peep the god of war references, they're very much in love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 01:57:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrotjus/pseuds/carrotjus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> He is War but he will not rage.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>He is not Love but he does.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And there is no happily ever after in the love that war carries.</em>
</p><p> Or in which Jaskier is not Jaskier but a god searching the Continent for something <em> more</em>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Witcher - Various Alternate Universes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Did you get out all of that angry passion? Is it still forming?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>( 1259 - 1263 )</strong> </em>
</p><p>“May I call you father?” the child asks and though she tries hard to sound nonchalant, the question still hangs heavy in the space between them. “Or mother, if you prefer,” she adds quickly while bright red colours her cheeks, clearly ashamed at the mere idea of being wrong.</p><p>They are neither a father nor a mother. They are war. Dried blood stays under their fingernails even after centuries of washing and rage simmers deep within them with no hope of being vanquished. They do not father a daughter nor mother a son—even if the child is unmistakably theirs. They are War, in name as well as in nature. In every sense of the word. They fight gruesome battles and they taint soils with blood. They do not love for simply, it is not in their nature.</p><p>They watch as she swings around the blade gripped tightly in her hands with finesse despite it weighing more than she does. Her moves are calculated even when she slices nothing but cold air. Her breathing is heavy but steady still, regardless of the fact that she has put in a good few hours into this particular training session. She is quick to deflect the knives thrown in her direction—meant to distract rather than maim—without much of an effort and there is a triumphant smirk carved across her face as the knives clatter loudly to the earth. She is graceful in this dance with her blade—a product of her years of training with them.</p><p>“I am not suited to be a parent, child,” they say and there is more truth in those words than they will ever care to admit.</p><p>“But you <em>have</em> been one to me, for the past years,” she points out, stabbing the earth almost harshly with her blade. She stares at them for a long moment and there is heat in her gaze that they understand. “You have cared for me more than my own blood but you’ve refused to tell me even your name. I deserve to at least call you by a title that you’re worthy of.”</p><p>They are War. They father no daughter nor mother no son. And yet, here they are, looking out for a child that the rest of the damned world refuses to care for.</p><p>“You will call me neither,” they say after a brief pause. “And I do not have a mortal name, child.”</p><p>She nods and there is consideration in her eyes before she decides, “Jaskier, then. Like the flowers.”</p><p>“Why the flowers?”</p><p>“Because I love them.”</p><p> </p><p>In 1263, war breaks out across the Continent. For the first time since the birth of the stars in the heavens, a war is fueled with such an overwhelming amount of greed that it stretches into countless years of despair and terror, leaving vicious imprints all around.</p><p>Amidst the battlefield where armours clash violently and war cries deafen the ears, kneels a god—young as the stars but soiled as the earth. Sweat and blood cling to them like a second skin but they do not rage along with the soldiers—their <em>brothers</em>, their <em>children</em>.</p><p><em>Theirs</em> in this sea of blood.</p><p>No, instead they cradle her limp body close to their chest—hands trembling, eyes stinging.</p><p>“This is not you, wild one,” whispers a familiar voice. Love has always sounded soothing to them—gentle and warm, unlike the flame that rages deep in their own nature. Nothing as such. More like the home they have tirelessly searched for.</p><p>But in this moment, it is as if the fire has died out in the hearth because she whispers nothing but the cold hard truth. They are War and they rage for days on end. They do not love, especially a mortal child whom others have abandoned without an ounce of hesitance.</p><p>And yet, here they stay. Nature be damned.</p><p>They tighten their grip around the limp body and buries their face into the tangled curls which smell of ashes and regret. There is no more life in this body they hold, no matter how tight they cling to the memories nor how desperately they call for her.</p><p>They do not cry.</p><p>They will not cry.</p><p>“Has it started to torture you?”</p><p> </p><p>She is not a child of War even when the flames from the deepest pits of hell set her eyes alight.</p><p>She is not a child of War even when short fingers—chubby still with baby fat, are as deeply familiar with throwing knives as they are with spoons.</p><p>She is not a child of War but they treat her far better than they treat their own. They cradle her close with pride when those around her will only ever glance in fear. And in turn, she clings onto them much like the parent she does not have.</p><p>Her name is Lucia with hair the colour of the blaze in her soul and eyes as bright as the cornflowers she picks come morn. She is not a child of War but they love her more than such deity should ever know how to.</p><p> </p><p>It is funny then, to think that their love has ultimately brought her to her own doom.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>to clear things up before we go any further, jaskier is non-binary and goes by he/they.</p><p>hope you will enjoy this one ! x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I was born in a big grey cloud, screaming out a love song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>(1264)</em> </strong>
</p><p><em>Jaskier</em>—he pronounces the name like a child would with the words of their mother tongue, filled with a hint of wonder and excitement. He allows the word to roll from his tongue as many times as it takes to rid himself of the faint tremble of unfamiliarity in his voice. Then, he says it again until he is able to utter it as smoothly as if it is the same name his mother had given him.</p><p><em>My name is Jaskier</em>, he will introduce himself to the beautiful ladies as well as the handsome gentlemen with a charming smile that shows off the rows of his pearly white teeth. <em>I am a master poet</em>, he will tell them. <em>Unlike any other you have ever encountered</em>. <em>And a champion bard</em>, he will boast. Their eyes will glimmer in equal measures of delight and envy at the sight of the fine silks he covers himself with, colourful as the rainbows and bright as the morning sun.</p><p>For years to come, he is Jaskier, a travelling bard who entertains peasants and nobles alike.</p><p>He is not War as he drifts from one village to another, putting on performances which will fulfil the hearts of those who listen but never his own. He refuses to acknowledge the ghost of spattered blood on his hands and strums his lute a little harder until they ache just enough to make him forget. He does not weep for her come night when he lays alone and no willing bodies will quiet his mind.</p><p>Her, who was once as warm as this persona he tries to be.</p><p>Her, who once raged as greatly as this persona sings.</p><p>He is not War.</p><p>He is—</p><p>“Son of a whore!”</p><p><em>Well</em>, he ponders for a moment as he struggles to pull his trousers up from where it pools around his ankles. <em>That </em>is definitely one topic worth debating over. Jaskier is perfectly certain that while mother sleeps around with mortals as frequently as the next deity, in this particular situation, he thinks he deserves the master title of—</p><p>Alright. Yes. <em>Focus</em>.</p><p>And he stills at the sight of a machete gripped tightly in the old man's hand. Alena—the fine lady of the evening—chokes on a breath from where she sits on the bed, untied dress clutched tightly to her chest.</p><p>"Papa, <em>no</em>. Please, papa, this is madness!" she calls to her old man, brows knotted together in obvious concern but her father does not even twitch at her pleas and Jaskier regards this as a signal for him to scoot closer toward the open window. "This is <em>my  </em>decision too, papa. Leave the man be!"</p><p>Jaskier pauses and is seconds away from blurting out, <em>that is really not what I am. Yes, perhaps I appear quite like one but you see, I am just me without the complications of—well, everything else. Simple as that. </em>when the old man interrupts his line of thoughts with a hideous snarl. "You dare come into <em>my </em>house and taint <em>my </em>child!" And he points the rusted tip of the machete straight at Jaskier as they stand in the room with nothing more than ten steps of space between the two of them.</p><p>Jaskier chuckles nervously before he thinks to throw his hands up in what he hopes to be a placating gesture. "Sir," he begins slowly and immediately clears his throat when the word comes out sounding much like the squeak of a terrified mouse. He inches back when the old man thumps one foot forward, only to have his bare back collide with the wall. Jaskier curses in his own mind. To the old man, he tries, "I assure you I was not trying to taint absolutely anyone in this lovely home."</p><p>"You tried to bed my daughter!"</p><p>And he thinks, oh mortals and their many rules.</p><p>"Sir, truly, your daughter gave me her enthusiastic consent multiple times. If anything, I was doing quite the opposite of <em>tainting </em>her—" the rest of his words dissolve on his tongue once Jaskier realizes how red the old man has become. The machete shakes in that wrinkled hand. "Alright, yes, not really helping my case. I can see that now."</p><p>Bright blue eyes flit from the old man to the beauty trembling in bed and afterwards, the machete. And a decision is made. Hastily, to Alena, Jaskier says, "It's been a lovely evening, my dear and my deepest apologies that it has to end like this—or that it has to end at <em>all</em>, really. Well, then, I'll just—" And he dives head first through the open window right as the old man belts out a war cry that would scare even the biggest of the Continent's beasts. Jaskier collapses onto the dirt with a loud thud and manages to reorient himself just fast enough to avoid the old man's yellow spit.</p><p>"If I catch you in this village again, I will make your balls my dinner, you hear me, boy?"</p><p>"Again, sir, it's—"</p><p>The old man snarls before he slams the window shut, leaving Jaskier to sit bare-chested in the dirt while still trying to comprehend the old man's threat. <em>Ah, fuck</em>, he thinks as his hands drift up to rub warmth into his arms. Seems like another night in the stable with his lovely horse, then.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier leaves the village just as the sun crawls pass the horizon and all around him, nature begins to slowly wake from her deep slumber. He heads west almost blindly but certainly away from the blinding rays with his lute safely tucked in its case and strapped to his back, and his beautiful dusty grey mare in tow. He knows not of what lays ahead for the both of them except for more villages, more rowdy taverns and more coins to be tossed in his direction—or bread, Jaskier supposes. <em>No</em>, he muses after a second of serious consideration. There will most definitely be more breads thrown at him than coins.</p><p>When a particularly harsh breeze brushes past them, his mare flicks her ears in annoyance while Jaskier tugs his cloak tighter around himself before he pouts at the reminder of his mismatched outfit hidden underneath the thick black cloth. Leaving his doublet and chemise at Alena's home was one terrible mistake because now, Jaskier has to go about in the same pair of yellow trousers as last night but paired with a moss green chemise. They are a horrendous match, that is for certain.</p><p>Of course, it is not as tragic as he makes it seem to be but that still does not change the fact that this particular problem is making his skin itch terribly—or perhaps, that is the fabric.</p><p>"Look at you."</p><p>He jolts out of his line of thoughts and next to him, his mare startles before she begins to insistently tug at her reins, neighing in distress at the sudden additional presence. Jaskier throws a glance to his left before returning his attention to his mare, gentle hands stroking down her neck soothingly.</p><p>"It's alright, darling. You're alright. She's no threat to us," he whispers and smiles once she settles down with nothing more than a snort of annoyance, her own blue eyes glaring at the newcomer.</p><p>"Mother wants you to return. She has had enough of this nonsense."</p><p>"Sister," Jaskier says and nods in acknowledgement of her presence but rushes to say nothing else. He tugs gently at the reins, pulling his mare forward once more and the <em>clip-clop </em>of her hooves fill the silence for a long while.</p><p>"This is not you," Love says as she walks alongside them, her hands clutching one another so tightly as if she is preventing herself from reaching for him—her twin. The one she is supposed to understand wholeheartedly. "And what <em>is </em>all of this, wild one?" she continues, her tone souring by a fraction more. "You don't even <em>look </em>like you. You look like—"</p><p>And he hears the words at the tip of her tongue before Love even has the chance to utter it. </p><p>Eyes as bright and blue as the cornflowers Lucia once picked. The name of the very flower she once favoured as his own. He seems like something she would have loved if she were still here. Foolish of him to think that Love, of all deities will not catch onto the fact.</p><p>"A mortal? A bard?" Jaskier offers instead. Love narrows her eyes at him as he continues, "That's exactly the point, sister."</p><p>"Come home, wild one." And he hears the pity dripping from her every word. "How much longer will you play pretend? Becoming one of them will not bring her back. Come home."</p><p>He ignores the ache in his chest and hums in respond but neither in acceptance nor rejection. His hand drifts to pat his mare affectionately on her neck and hears her soft appreciative sigh before she nudges gently against his chest. He feels the strap of his lute case digging into his shoulder and he rests his other hand on the fine leather.</p><p>No, he thinks. This is where he wishes to stay.</p><p>"As you wish," Love replies to his thought and this time, he hears no judgement in her voice. When she rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, Jaskier pulls his mare to a halt and turns to look at his sister properly. There is a certain sadness in her eyes that reminds him of the words she whispered to him mere months ago. <em>Has it started to torture you? </em>Jaskier did not understand her then but he thinks he does now.</p><p>He is War but he will not rage.</p><p>He is not Love but he does.</p><p>And there is no happily ever after in the love that war carries.</p><p>"Mother will find you one day and when she does, she will rage as you never have," she tells him, gentle hands pulling him closer until Love is able to plant a soft kiss on his forehead. "So hide, wild one. Hide until not even <em>I </em>can find you."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. And there will be no grand choirs to sing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for all of the support on this thus far ! much love.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>(1267)</strong> </em>
</p><p>Jaskier runs to the ends of the Continent and back. He runs until these flimsy mortal lungs will do nothing more than ache as he heaves another deep and stuttering breath with sweat trailing down his back. He does not revel in his true nature, desperately hoping that at some point in this journey, he will be able to outrun it. And Jaskier continues on as such—with paranoia filling his lungs and desperation clouding his every judgement as he hides and hides. For many seasons.</p><p>He runs.</p><p>And he runs.</p><p>And if he is not known as a bard in this city, he is well known as a paramour in the next village—but nothing else. Nothing more nor nothing less.</p><p>Destiny, though, is one deity no other can hide from, for they are the ones weaving the very fabric of reality itself. They know the events in heavens above just as familiar as the events down below. They control everything and nothing all at once. And still, it hits Jaskier much like a bucket of ice cold water when they finally curl their dainty fingers around his existence and tug him along to fit the version of a story that they much prefer.</p><p>And so there he is, standing stiff inside a dimly-lit tavern in the middle of nowhere land. And over there, a warrior sits, glorious like none he has ever come across. His fingers still on the strings of his lute and his breath stutters in his chest. Distantly, Jaskier hears the foul words being hurled in his direction at the sudden halt in his performance but he pays the drunken patrons no mind, focusing instead on the hulking figure sitting in the secluded corner. White hair. Finely crafted armour. Two swords—silver for monsters and steel for unfortunate humans. And of course, not to forget, the medallion of the wolves of Kaer Morhen.</p><p>Oh, Jaskier has heard of the man more times than he can possibly imagine. The Butcher of Blaviken. The White Witcher—a mutant even among the wolves. Though as he stands here, staring shamelessly at the monster of countless hideous tales for a moment longer, all he is able to think of is how absolutely beautiful the man is.</p><p>Instinctively, his feet bring him forward and as the floorboards begin to groan under his weight, the witcher flicks his attention from his tankard of ale to where Jaskier stands, lute clutched tightly to his chest and eyes bright with nothing but wonderment and delight. Calm amber meets bright blue and that is when he finally snaps out of his reverie with a choked gasp.</p><p>Jaskier stumbles back, averting his gaze.</p><p>He will not do this again.</p><p>And slips out of the tavern in a single breath.</p><p>He runs out of the village almost frantically and stumbles on dusts as he pushes forward, fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of his lute and his free hand struggling to stop the lute case—heavy with newly earned coins—from slowing him. He throws quick glances pass his shoulder after every few steps until the tavern is no longer in sight and he is deep in the forest, where Jaskier hopes to find no one as strongly as he wishes for none to find him.</p><p>But of course. Of <em>course</em> that Destiny, for the lack of better word, is nothing but an arsehole.</p><p>He hears the rustling of leaves and the familiar <em>shink</em> of a sword unsheathing. And when he blinks, there is a tip of a sword digging slightly into the skin of his neck—enough to cause pain but nothing fatal. No, he has learnt that nothing is ever enough for that. His breath hitches and his entire body goes rigid. The heavy lute case hanging heavy from his shoulder finally clatters to the mossy forest floor, spilling coins and papers everywhere.</p><p>Jaskier does not have to turn to know who is standing at the other end of the sword. He, in fact, can almost smell it—the rage that surrounds the witcher. And he laughs, short and devoid of mirth, thinking, it has been far too long since his path crosses with that of a true warrior’s.</p><p>“Destiny has a wicked way of meddling with our lives, don’t you think?”</p><p>He hisses when the sword digs a fraction deeper. Jaskier hears a low rumble coming from the witcher and cannot stop himself from shivering as his own nature recognizes itself in another, its wispy hands reaching out for familiarity. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in and out.</p><p>“You a soldier?” the witcher growls, making Jaskier snap his eyes open once more. “A <em>Nilfgaardian</em> spy?” the witcher adds, spitting the name with clear disgust.</p><p>“I’m just a bard,” he answers carefully and well, he is not lying. At least, if you think about it, not <em>entirely</em>.</p><p>“You ran as soon as you recognized me in that tavern. You try to fool me again and this sword goes through your neck, <em>bard</em>.”</p><p>He has tried, that is for certain. <em>Multiple</em> times, in fact and he <em>knows</em> it will not work but it is perhaps nothing more than a moment of weakness for him or perhaps there <em>is</em> something more to it. But all Jaskier can say for himself in that moment is that he is tired and he has been afraid for so long that he wishes for nothing more than for everything to stop—even for a short minute. And so despite his abundance of knowledge in the matter, he says, “Do it, then.”</p><p>And those words are enough to take the witcher aback as he lowers his sword just slightly. For some time, the forest is filled with stunned silence.</p><p>“<em>Geralt</em>,” a voice calls out warningly from above them—from somewhere in the trees. And Jaskier startles before he cranes his neck and squints through the shadows but manages to see nothing more than the sea of green. “I think he’s telling the truth,” the voice says, gentler this time.</p><p>“Look,” Jaskier huffs when he notices how the chord of suspicion is still wrapped tightly around the witcher, who is scowling ceaselessly where he stands. “You can kill me right now or you and your—tree friend? <em>Whoever</em> it is up there, can join me for the night and see that I, truly am, just a humble bard. I’m exhausted, darkness is almost upon us and I don’t suppose you have a room booked at the tavern. So decide now and be done with it, witcher.”</p><p>“<em>Geralt</em>,” the voice warns again when the silence between them stretches for far too long.</p><p>The witcher glares at Jaskier for a minute longer. Then, with an indignant huff, slowly lowers his sword until its glinting tip points to nothing but the cluster of mushrooms on the forest floor. Jaskier nods at the witcher in silent gratitude but he has to admit, it is harder to lie to himself. Harder to rid himself of the sinking feeling that he has lost somehow. It could have worked this time around, he thinks even when he knows it is impossible.</p><p>“Perfect,” he chirps instead, slipping on his most charming smile and clapping his hands together in a show of exaggerated delight before he bends down to gather his items from the earth. “Shall we find a nice spot to rest, then?”</p><p> </p><p>The gentle voice in the trees do not make themselves known until Jaskier and the witcher manage to find a suitable clearing for them to rest for the night. He does not even hear the rustling of leaves as they move forward together and by the time they find the clearing, Jaskier is fairly certain that the witcher has an actual tree for a traveling companion.</p><p> He yelps when a cloaked figure drops from the tree, right next to where Jaskier is gathering tinder for their fire for the night. A handful of the tree branches he cradles in his arms fall to the ground when he jolts in surprise and Jaskier curses quietly before he aims a sharp glare at the figure—inches shorter than him, he takes notice. He stops short when he catches the glint of pale green eyes and the flash of blonde hair—almost silver under the moonlight. And Jaskier stumbles back, breath rattling loudly in his chest. A step. Then, two. And another.</p><p><em>Fourteen summers old</em>, he remembers the whispering voices in the long winding halls of heavens. <em>The course of the entire universe dependent on a couple of </em>mortal<em> children?</em></p><p><em>No, you are mistaken</em>, another voice whispered in return. And this voice was calmer. More controlled of their emotions. <em>Only one child. The Lion Cub of Cintra or the Stygian Star of Nilfgaard.</em></p><p>“You’re—you’re <em>her</em>,” Jaskier stammers out. “You’re the Lion Cub of Cintra.”</p><p>As soon as he utters the acknowledgement, the princess shoves him up against the nearest tree with strength that puts even adults to shame and he grunts when the back of his head collides none to gently against the tree trunk. For a second, dazedly, Jaskier thinks he sees Lucia—older and stronger. And the illusion warps his mind for what feels like an eternity before he is snapped back into reality at the feel of a cold blade pressed against his throat.</p><p>When his eyes focus again, he only sees the Cintran princess with her hood now pooling around her neck and when she snarls at him, Jaskier is awfully reminded of the witcher.</p><p>“Put the dagger down, Ciri,” the witcher rumbles as he slowly makes his way back to the centre of the clearing.</p><p>Jaskier hears a gentle thud and when he glances pass the princess’ shoulder, sees that the witcher has caught them a couple of hares for dinner—or perhaps, only for himself and the princess. And Jaskier will have to steal bits and pieces when neither of them are observing his every move.</p><p>“But—” the princess halts her own words and bright eyes dart from Jaskier to the witcher, filled with uncertainty. The man only stares at the two of them from where he stands, posture relaxed and making no move to intervene. “He recognizes me, Geralt,” she tells the witcher almost frantically. “And you always say that those who does will want to do me harm.”</p><p>“I know,” the witcher replies carefully with a slow nod, his voice soothing and warm. “But this one is far too delighted with the idea of being killed to even harm you,” he tells her pointedly before amber eyes focus on Jaskier and those cat-like eyes seem incredibly sharp and intrusive in the darkness that Jaskier struggles to not flinch. Then, to Jaskier, he says, “I can smell it off of you, you realize that right?”</p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier huffs out a laugh and visibly deflates, slumping against the tree with an eye roll. “Of course, you witcher and your keen noses.”</p><p>The princess blanches, finally understanding the witcher’s exchanges with him and she retracts her blade immediately as if the act scorches her skin—and, Jaskier thinks, it probably does. “That was—I never planned on killing you,” she stumbles over her own words as she backs away, one shaky step after another.</p><p>A shame, Jaskier can only think as he slides down the tree until he is sitting with his knees to his chest. He <em>is</em> feeling experimental tonight, after all. He returns his eyes to the witcher and calls out, “What else can your keen senses tell you about me?”</p><p>The man steps closer to gather the pile of tinder Jaskier dropped earlier. “You don’t smell of human blood and it’s not elven blood either,” he states, staring contemplatively at Jaskier for a short moment before stepping away to drop the tinder at the very centre of the clearing.</p><p>Absently, Jaskier notices the princess disappearing back into the trees without a single glance back to the both of them. Then, his attention flickers back to the witcher just in time to see him ignite the tinder with a sign Jaskier does not quite recognize.</p><p>“You don’t smell of this world at all,” the witcher remarks. “So what are you?”</p><p>Jaskier raises his brows, impressed before he barks out a short laugh. Shaking his head, Jaskier says, “You wouldn’t believe.”</p><p>The witcher crouches near the fire as he begins preparing the hares for cooking. Jaskier thinks he sees the man’s lips twitch into a quick smile and then, the witcher says, “I’ve seen my fair share of unbelievable things in this world. I’ll humour you, bard.”</p><p>“A god,” Jaskier admits after a pondering on the matter for a second too long.</p><p>“And what’s a <em>god</em> doing down here among us mortals?” the witcher narrows amber eyes at Jaskier, his jaw clenching. “Why is a god pretending to be a mortal?”</p><p>And Jaskier wonders why everyone is putting it like that—that he is simply <em>pretending</em>.</p><p>“To put it simply, I’m—” he pauses and turns his gaze to the ground. “Running away.”</p><p>“And where exactly are you running to?”</p><p>“Wherever the road will take me, if I’m being honest,” he replies. Then, laughs at how the witcher’s face pinches in discontent at his answer. “I’m not being poetic, witcher. I have nowhere to go, so all there is left for me is to move forward and hope that I won’t be found.”</p><p>“Come with us, then,” the princess suddenly pipes up from where she sits in the trees and Jaskier startles a little, fully thinking that his words are only for the witcher.</p><p>“<em>Child</em>,” the man growls warningly while amber eyes dart up to glare at a specific spot in the trees.</p><p>“Look, if he is what he says he is, then we’ll have a better chance at returning to the keep with him on our side. The Nilfgaardians are still out there, coming for me but maybe <em>he</em> can help us out a little bit, here and there.”</p><p>Jaskier cannot help it, he laughs loudly. “Poppet,” he calls to the princess with an amused smile. “What makes you think I’ll help you when the time comes? What makes you think I won’t use you both for my own agenda?”</p><p>There is a brief pause and when the princess speaks again, her voice is quieter but the fire remains in her words. "There will be no guarantees, I <em>know</em> that. I’m young not an idiot,” she says tersely. Then, softer, “But you seem like you could use a friend or two and we—I just think that it’ll make our journey more interesting and livelier with another companion.”</p><p>His attention flicks to the witcher. “And you?” he asks when the man neither agrees nor rejects the princess’ notion. “Where do I stand in your grand plan of returning to your pack?”</p><p>The witcher only grunts before returning all of his attention to the bloody hares he has in hands. And when Jaskier hears the princess cheers in the trees, he figures that when morning comes, he will find himself with a couple of traveling companions. And he thinks, if push ever comes to shove and they need to use him for who he truly is, Jaskier will simply flee once more much like he has for the past years.</p><p>Nothing has changed.</p><p>This is a mere pause in his plans.</p><p>Nothing will change.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. There is love in your body but you can't hold it in</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt has gone <em>soft</em> because <em>that</em> is what <em>this</em> is and there is no other way he knows to put it. A decade ago, he would have balked at the mere idea of traveling with someone he knows close to nothing about but life for him has been different since Ciri. <em>Clearly</em>. Since their fated reunion in that forest and since Ciri clung to him as if there was no tomorrow for her, things have changed.</p><p>From that moment onward, it constantly occurs to Geralt that perhaps there is more to the life of a witcher than simply monsters and coins. Ciri—bless her soul, has certainly been trying to teach him to look at life through a different set of eyes. A kinder one and a forgiving one, even. Though, Geralt has to admit that at times, he does wonder if these changes are weakening him in some ways—making him <em>soft</em>.</p><p>And he wonders about it now as he quietly watches Ciri and their new traveling companion huddle near a cluster of wildflowers, their fingers pointing at various things all at once. She giggles in respond to something the bard tells her and the sight of her devoid of worry is so rare to Geralt that it warms his heart instantly. He smiles to himself before his hands carry on with sharpening his sword.</p><p>Then, his eyes fall once more on the grotesquely talkative bard with flashing silks for clothes and who also claims to be a god. And whether there is truth in the admission remains a mystery to both, Geralt and Ciri to this day.</p><p><em>Jaskier</em>, the bard introduced himself mere week ago. <em>Like the flowers</em>, he added quickly afterward as if it is one detail far too important to be left out and while Ciri nodded with understanding in her eyes at the statement, Geralt only stared at the bard, clueless.</p><p>An entire day of traveling with Jaskier made him instantly regret his agreement to take on a new traveling companion for Ciri. Later, though—<em>much</em> later, he realized that while the bard speaks almost without a pause, his words lack substance.</p><p>Jaskier drops comments on how blue the sky is, how beautiful that bird sings, how nice Ciri’s new gloves are and about a million other things in his line of sight but Jaskier never speaks of himself. And if asked, those impossibly blue eyes will instantly dim and the bard will grow quiet. He will avoid their observing eyes for the rest of the day but, Geralt notices, he never actually tries to leave them.</p><p><em>Leave him be</em>, Ciri whispered to him after Geralt’s fourth failed attempt at wheedling information out of the bard. <em>See, he has not run from us yet. I am telling you that he has a good—well, a </em>decent<em> heart at least. Let him tell us in his own time, Geralt.</em></p><p>“I’m heading to the village,” Geralt announces as he stands up and returns his sharpened sword back into its sheath. “To see if they have any contracts up that’s worth my time.”</p><p>The conversation between his two companions halts and Jaskier jolts onto his feet with a grin. “Oh,” he exclaims. “I’ll come with you. I’ve missed a good crowd,” he says excitedly and before Geralt can offer a reply, Jaskier is already reaching for his lute case from where it rests against their pile of belongings near Roach.</p><p>And well, Geralt thinks with a sigh as he reaches for his own items, it cannot hurt to earn a few extra coins.</p><p>He takes in their campsite once more, with sharp and careful eyes. He knows that the site is far enough away from the main path for no one to come disturbing. He knows that the sun is still shining brightly in the sky for him to be worried about the more dangerous monsters that prefer to lurk in the dark. Still, Geralt does not hesitate to ask aloud, “Will you be fine on your own, Ciri?”</p><p>Ciri rises to her feet and crosses her arms over her chest with an annoyed huff. “I’m seventeen, not helpless,” she states.</p><p>It is an obligatory question, Geralt thinks. Then, he thinks, <em>no</em>. It is most definitely <em>not</em> an obligatory question. Geralt worries a lot since Ciri came into his life. It does not matter if she is seventeen or twenty-one, Geralt thinks he will worry for her ceaselessly. But he does not tell her this. Instead, he shoots her an amused smile and says, “Good to know.” And he signals for the bard to start moving in the direction of the nearby village before he adds, “We’ll be back before sundown. Take care of Roach for me.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about her,” Ciri says in return, one hand waving at him as he starts following Jaskier. “She can very well take care of herself too.”</p><p>And that, he cannot deny. Roach is one hell of a mare.</p><p> </p><p>The village is not far from their campsite but Geralt leads the both of them through the sea of trees slow enough that the sun begins to slip slightly into its western territory. Jaskier keeps to himself as they push forward and Geralt has to admit that the silence jars him quite a bit. Even when the bard <em>does</em> speak, his words are often too quiet for them to be for anyone else but himself.</p><p>It hits Geralt halfway through their journey—the realization that perhaps he should not trust people as easily as Ciri does. Yes, in the days that Jaskier has travelled with them, the bard has only ever shown unmitigated kindness toward Ciri and a strange sort of gentleness toward Geralt. Though, it can very well be just an act, he thinks. To lure the both of them in before Jaskier truly strikes. Because on days when those bright blues become clouded, it has all of Geralt’s senses on high alert and his mind wondering if this is when the bard will show his true colours.</p><p>And for the first time in years, for the first time since Cintra burnt to the ground, Geralt finds himself afraid of what is to come because it is no longer only him against the world now. He has a child to protect. <em>His</em> child.</p><p>So Geralt does the one thing he can think of—he probes. And if words ever lead to sharp steels piercing skins, then at least the problem is dealt with before their ties to Jaskier can grow into something more. Save Ciri the unnecessary heartbreak. Save himself the guilt of putting down a friend.</p><p>“Why are you following us, Jaskier?”</p><p>Geralt hears the bard stops and he follows suit. And when he glances pass his shoulder, Jaskier is already staring at him, brows knotted together and clear confusion flickering in those eyes.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Jaskier asks and shakes his head. “You <em>asked</em> me to come—well, Ciri did and you didn’t object to the idea,” he pauses and seems to consider the matter for a moment before he adds, “At least, not until now, it seems.”</p><p><em>Even when it is clearly a foolish idea to begin with</em>, remains unsaid between them.</p><p>Geralt clears his throat and when he resumes their journey, the bard follows along. Though, this time, Jaskier jogs forward in order to walk by his side. And for a brief minute, the two of them allow the silence to settle on them and all around like a thick fur in a cold winter night. That is, before Jaskier begins shooting questioning glances in his direction after every few steps until Geralt grows irritated of it and says, “We offered you nothing in return for,” he pauses. “For whatever <em>this</em> is. The plan—Ciri’s plan is that you keep us out of harm’s way if we ever need you to but we never did offer you some sort of payment for it.”</p><p>The bard laughs softly in return as if he is hearing the most amusing thing rolling off Geralt’s tongue. Then, he hums and nods, a silent agreement. “My dear witcher,” he calls gently. “You and that child of yours have paid me. More than enough, in fact.”</p><p>Geralt stiffens and the words that come from the bard afterwards, fall on deaf ears as he retreats into his own mind. Geralt wonders to himself if the payment comes in the form of information on Ciri—for Jaskier to sell to the highest bidder when the time comes. And so far, he thinks, the bard only knows that they are heading back to Kaer Morhen for the coming winter but neither Geralt nor Ciri have ever mentioned of their other allies and their whereabouts.</p><p>And perhaps that is why Jaskier has yet to run off. He knows that there is more to dig—more to sell to those with more gold in their pockets than one can ever imagine. To those who wish to harm Geralt’s little family—like the <em>Nilfgaardians</em>.</p><p>And before Geralt can thoroughly process his own thoughts, he is already backing Jaskier up against the nearest tree with an arm pressed against the bard’s throat and his entire weight pinning the other down.</p><p>“Oh, to hell with all of you!” Jaskier shouts angrily and smacks a palm flat on Geralt’s face before he pushes with all his might. Geralt grunts in return, feeling as if he is struggling with a cat rather than a possible traitor. “This is getting absolutely <em>ridiculous</em> and unbearably <em>rude</em>—” Then, Jaskier lifts one leg into the air before he kicks Geralt backwards with a force Geralt is certain a mere bard should be incapable of. “—you horse’s <em>arse</em>!”</p><p>Geralt stumbles back a good few steps before he shoots Jaskier a sharp glare. “You’re toying with us, aren’t you?” he seethes.</p><p>“Excuse me?” the bard scoffs. “I’m <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“What is it that we’re paying you with? Information on the princess?” he laughs when Jaskier only stares at him incredulously in return. An act, his mind insists. This all a mere act. “You pretend to be such a saint around her—around the both of us so you can sell her out in the end, is that it?”</p><p>Geralt has never witnessed anger coming from Jaskier in the entire week since they met. And he is grateful that Ciri has never been at the receiving end of it either because coming face to face with it now, it sends shivers down his spine and sparks a great unease within him that Geralt has to take a deliberate step away from the bard.</p><p>“I’ve been traveling alone for a long time. Is it so bad to find the both of you a pleasant enough company fit as the payment?” Jaskier asks simply, his words tinged with thick anger that he holds back. And he glares right back at Geralt. “A chance to be part of something I’m not meant to be, witcher. Is that gift so foreign to you?”</p><p>Then, Jaskier shakes his head and huffs out an empty laugh. He reaches up to grip tightly onto the leather strap of his lute case that hangs from his shoulder. Bright blue eyes no longer focus on Geralt and the anger which swirled in the air mere seconds ago is now nowhere to be found. “I’m going to head back to camp,” Jaskier mumbles. “Don’t quite feel like entertaining a soul anymore. You go ahead, witcher.”</p><p>And Geralt has the strange feeling that he has fucked things up again.</p><p> </p><p>He follows Jaskier back to their campsite—coins and contracts entirely forgotten. And Ciri only has to take one look at the both of them when they arrive before she directs a murderous glare at Geralt while the bard settles quietly under a tree, pulling his lute out of its case.</p><p>“For gods’ sakes,” she hisses once Geralt is close enough. “What have you done, now?”</p><p>And yes, alright, perhaps he has <em>truly</em> fucked things up again.</p><p> </p><p>Some time when the sun begins to set, Jaskier disappears from the clearing without a word and by the time Geralt manages to track him down, the sky is already painted a deep indigo. He finds the bard sitting by a rushing river—a little ways away from their camp, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his lute in his lap and his chin tilted up, wide eyes taking in the sprinkles of stars dotting the sky.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says as soon as Geralt settles quietly in the space next to him. His eyes remain on the stars above them, still not sparing Geralt a glance. “Your concerns were—<em>are</em> not unwarranted.”</p><p>Geralt hums in acknowledgement but says nothing in return, offering the silence for the bard to fill with his own words instead. And with some time, Jaskier does. Bit by bit.</p><p>“I can’t be what she needs when the time comes,” Jaskier admits quietly with something akin to fear in his voice. “My—I suppose you’d call it <em>powers</em>? Magic, perhaps? Well, whatever it is to you, I can’t use it. Look, I <em>know</em> the deal is that I protect you with my powers if the need ever comes,” he says and wiggles his fingers much like a jester performing tricks. “But I can’t do that and my plan was to only tag along and see where that’ll take me,” he pauses and huffs defeatedly. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”</p><p>“And why is that?” Geralt asks. The idea that this person next to him holds such godly powers in that lithe body of his is still quite difficult to believe but he pushes the thought aside. Asking instead, “Why can’t you use it?”</p><p>“She’ll find me if I do,” the bard murmurs. “She’ll find me in the blink of an eye, Geralt.”</p><p>Geralt drags his eyes from the flickering stars and focuses his attention on Jaskier once more, finding the bard staring at the river a few steps away from where they both sit. Jaskier stares at the rushing water with a certain sort of longing, he notices. As if the other wishes to be dragged along by the current to somewhere new—perhaps somewhere Jaskier can finally stop running from whoever <em>she</em> is.</p><p>And this has Geralt wondering—if Jaskier is indeed who he says he is, then who is it out there that can instil such fear in a god? Should Geralt be afraid of them too, especially since Jaskier is traveling alongside him and Ciri now?</p><p>And then, he thinks, <em>hold on.</em></p><p>Will Geralt simply <em>allow</em> the bard to continue traveling with them?</p><p>As if reading his line of thoughts, Jaskier says, “This is the end of the line, then. This is where we split, I suppose.”</p><p>“Like hell,” Geralt mutters in return and knows, quite certainly that he has made his decision long before he even starts thinking about it. He is almost certain that Jaskier is harmless—or at the very least, Geralt is certain that the bard will gain nothing from hurting them. So he says, “Ciri will choke me in my sleep if you leave.”</p><p>Jaskier turns to stare at him, wide eyes filled with astonishment and clearly startled by Geralt’s words. And for some time, he keeps blinking, seeming as if he is—well, embarrassingly enough, as if he is holding back tears.</p><p>“Stay, Jaskier,” he tells the other, voice firm as he solidifies his invitation. “You don’t have anything better to do anyway, right? Keep us company, then.”</p><p> The bard grins at him and laughs, loud and joyous. “Well,” he begins, blue eyes staring at Geralt a little too tenderly. “If you insist.”</p><p>He watches as the corners Jaskier’s eyes crinkle in absolute delight as if Geralt has handed him the entire universe instead of simply inviting him on this journey home with Geralt and his daughter. And Geralt wonders, for the first time, what has the bard gone through to be so thoroughly pleased by something seemingly so trivial to Geralt. And then, he thinks, <em>oh fuck</em> as he finds himself returning the other’s grin because it is without a doubt now that Geralt of Rivia has gone absolutely and irrevocably <em>soft</em>.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. You don't make a sound, heartbreak was never so loud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>love brain goes brrrr</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I thought you hate—no, absolutely <em>despise</em> big cities,” Jaskier says, craning his neck to take in the beautifully designed buildings and watchtowers sprawled all around them as the three of them make their way through the big gates and into Novigrad.</p><p>And Geralt does. He <em>knows</em> that the man does because while Jaskier never shuts up about fancy clothes, tasteful wines and basically all of the luxuries life can offer, Geralt, on the other hand, never shuts up only about <em>one</em> thing—<em>crowds</em>. Not even his incessant whining nor Ciri’s heart-breaking pleas can make Geralt budge—and that is saying something because one, Jaskier’s whining usually works and secondly, Ciri’s the apple of the man’s eyes.</p><p>So he wonders why they are here now, pushing through throngs of people in order to find the nearest inn—or perhaps a tavern. Jaskier is not certain of their actual destination, really.</p><p>“I do,” Geralt grumbles from where he walks to Jaskier’s left, one hand tugging Roach along by her reins. The mare snorts and huffs frequently as they walk on, seeming as annoyed by the crowd as her witcher is. “Makes remaining anonymous much harder,” he murmurs.</p><p>And Jaskier does not point out the fact that a white-haired witcher prancing around the Continent is already enough to draw attention. The Butcher of Blaviken, no less, he thinks. Then, he drags his eyes away from the man, focusing instead on finding—<em>a tavern</em>, he decides after a moment of consideration. A drink or two would be nice right about now. A good crowd vying for entertainment too.</p><p>To his right, Ciri offers him an answer to the question still lingering on his mind. “There’s a contract going around asking for a witcher,” she explains in a tone that tells Jaskier that she is not entirely happy with this turn of events. “It pays well enough for us to be able to not take up anything else for <em>weeks</em>. We can stay low for some time, throw Nilfgaard off our tracks.”</p><p><em>Ah</em>, he muses. So <em>that</em> is why. And then, his brows knot together, forehead creasing in the process and aloud, he asks to neither of them in particular, “If it pays <em>that</em> well, then it must be incredibly dangerous, no?” And when his companions neither deny nor affirm his thoughts, Jaskier huffs. “You know I could most likely gain just as much as they’re offering by performing two or three nights here, right?”</p><p>“I doubt it,” Geralt rumbles.</p><p>“Come on, Geralt,” he insists. “Let me help.”</p><p>Because Jaskier is not certain of exactly <em>how</em> or <em>when</em> did the conditions change. When or how did he begin caring for this cantankerous witcher and his charming little princess. But some time in the last few days, something changed when they should not. Somewhere he broke the promises he made to himself. And perhaps Destiny is laughing down at him now because despite all of his vows, Jaskier still ends up running a full circle—back to loving when he <em>knows</em>, oh, he know <em>so well</em> that he should not.</p><p>It is easy, he realizes, to love rather than to destroy.</p><p><em>Far</em> too easy.</p><p>“I think we should let Jaskier help,” Ciri says tersely before she turns to shoot Geralt a pointed stare, her brows raised as if she is challenging the man to say any different.</p><p>Geralt hates it when she does that—easily agreeing with Jaskier, that is. Because well, he is no one to these people. His words should mean nothing. But they do not and when Geralt steps forward somewhat faster than the both of them with nothing more than an irate grunt to acknowledge his daughter’s words, it comes as no surprise to either him or Ciri.</p><p>And Jaskier only watches as Geralt trudges on with Roach in tow, knowing that the man will never stray too far from Ciri. No matter how angry he may be.</p><p>Then, he diverts his attention to Ciri. “He’s a tough nut to crack, isn’t he?”</p><p>The girl shrugs, a forlorn smile plastered to her face while her eyes remain on Geralt’s cloaked back. “He just hates to admit that even <em>he</em> needs help sometimes,” she tells him, a little defensively. Then, another shrug that comes with a heavy sigh. “I can’t really blame him for feeling like that, I guess. I mean, he’s a witcher and everyone’s always saying that witchers are supposed to be able to execute everything on their own.”</p><p>“And that’s bullshit,” he replies simply.</p><p>“I <em>know</em> that,” she huffs and tugs her cloak tighter around herself before she pulls the hood further up, now shielding almost half of her face from wandering eyes in this sea of strangers. “But when people keep repeating it as if it’s a fact, it <em>sticks</em>, Jaskier. And Geralt has been around for so long that,” Ciri pauses for a moment. “I don’t think <em>he</em> knows that it’s bullshit.”</p><p>“I’ll talk to him later,” he assures gently, smiling down at her. And though it lacks her usual cheerfulness, Ciri tries to return the smile.</p><p>And afterwards when she feels better, Jaskier slings an arm around her and pulls her close as he declares how much of a waste it would be if neither of them use this time in the big city to hunt for a jar or two of her favourite blueberry jam. Ciri laughs with absolute delight and nods her head excitedly in agreement.</p><p>And, he thinks, a new set of clothes would be nice.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier slips into his shared room with Geralt much later in the night—when the tavern across the street is cleared out of their rowdiest patrons and the darkness seems much like a force to be reckoned with. And despite the sweat running down his back as well as the exhaustion coursing through his veins from entertaining the crowd in the tavern, Jaskier feels content. Happy to exist in this moment and even more so when he realizes that Geralt is waiting up for him as Jaskier slips through the cracked door.</p><p>“Ciri’s asleep?” he asks as he gently settles his lute back into its case and slips out of his doublet right after, folding it properly before placing it atop the closed case. Then, his boots and not long after, his breeches are being set aside along with his doublet. And Jaskier stands in the middle of the room in only his chemise and smallclothes, completely unashamed of it.</p><p>“Yes, she’s,” Geralt pauses for a second too long from where he sits on the bed before he clears his throat and averts his eyes as soon as Jaskier returns his focus on the man, brows raised slightly in question. And Geralt continues almost awkwardly, “She’s in the next room. Sound asleep, I think.”</p><p>“You know,” Jaskier begins as he steps toward the bed—well, <em>their</em> bed, that is pushed against the walls in one corner of the room. They have never done this before, of course—sleeping in such close proximity with each other but they both know that it is only practical to share. Especially in a city where most things cost a limb and <em>especially</em>, when the both of them have agreed on renting Ciri a room of her own. Jaskier settles himself on the edge of the bed and turns his body just enough to get a proper look at the man. He says, “She’s worried about you.”</p><p>At that, Geralt drags his eyes to the dirty ceiling above them and huffs. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he states plainly.</p><p>Jaskier—who has heard enough little lies from the man, scoffs as he pulls himself fully onto the bed next to where Geralt is laid out before he rearranges his limbs until he is leaning back against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him. <em>There</em>, he thinks. He is ready for an argument now. And testily, he says, “I know I’ve spent—oh, a little less than two weeks but most definitely more than one with you, so I’m perhaps not quite in the position to say this but darling, I swear, you have got to <em>stop</em> thinking that you’re facing this entire bugger of a world on your own.”</p><p><em>You have me</em>, he wants to add but refrains himself from doing so because even <em>he</em> is yet to be entirely certain of what is exactly brewing between them—the three of them. It feels a little like coming home, he thinks. And then Jaskier thinks, that must be the grief speaking and ponders on the matter no longer.</p><p>That is, until the grief wishes to speak again.</p><p>“I don’t—” Geralt stops when he realizes that Jaskier is staring at him and expects him to weave yet another lie. Then, he blows out a heavy breath as if finally releasing the weight of the world from his shoulders and quieter, he confesses, “It’s been years since Cintra but I feel like things just keep getting harder. Not to mention that I’m shit at this—being a parent, I mean. I can’t even provide her with a proper bed to sleep in or feed her a tasty meal most of the time because Nilfgaard is <em>still</em> out there, <em>still</em> sniffing our every step.” And then, he gestures angrily at the space they occupy. “And I never seem to have enough fucking coins to provide a better life for her too.”</p><p>And <em>oh</em>, Jaskier thinks. This is certainly more—<em>much</em> more, than he expected.</p><p>“I’m quite sure the girl is happy to be by your side, with or without the luxuries you can offer—and so long as you quit brooding, I suppose,” he states matter-of-factly and that garners a soft laugh from the man. “She’s seventeen, Geralt. She’s no longer a child and sometimes that means, you have to start letting her face the world with you. Side by side instead of hiding her behind you like you’ve always done. Guide her and stop piggybacking her, is what I’d do.”</p><p>Geralt hums in return and there is a brief pause in their conversation. Then, with slight awe in his voice, the man states, “You’re good at this.”</p><p>“At what?” Jaskier asks absentmindedly as he pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his chin atop one knee before he focuses on Geralt once more. And this time, Jaskier takes his time to truly look at his companion, noting how white hair flows down to broad shoulders much like silk and smelling of sweet soap. Geralt must have taken a bath when he was down at the tavern, he muses.</p><p> He has not once described Geralt as <em>delicate</em>, of all things but now, he must admit that there is definitely something within the man that makes him appear gentler in Jaskier’s eyes. Despite the man’s boorish behaviour, those menacing amber eyes and the double swords which are almost <em>always</em> strapped to his back. There is just something <em>soft</em> in Geralt that makes him come off as less terrifying to Jaskier than the man probably wishes to be.</p><p>And then, slowly, Jaskier begins to recognize the tenderness for what it truly is—<em>love</em>. Geralt of Rivia holds as much war within him as he does love. A perfect mixture of both, one would say.</p><p>And Jaskier likes that.</p><p>Perhaps—just <em>perhaps</em>, he even dares to <em>love</em> it.</p><p>Geralt shrugs, amber eyes staring right back at him. “Ciri,” he answers. Then, “Parenting.”</p><p>“Oh, um.” And he stumbles on his words quite a bit before Jaskier admits quietly, “I had a child.”</p><p>And Geralt must have sensed the sudden change in the air between them because he scoots closer, head tilting to the side as if readying himself to listen properly and all the while, never takes his eyes off Jaskier. “Tell me,” he whispers carefully and gently—gentler than Jaskier has ever heard from him.</p><p>“She was absolutely wonderful and incredibly charming. And she was—” his <em>love</em>. “—a tad bit bratty than Ciri,” Jaskier laughs to himself as the memories come flooding in once more. “But it makes me love her all the more, I think.”</p><p>So much that it still hurts.</p><p>“What happened to her?”</p><p><em>Stabbed barely inches away from her small beating heart. Bled out in Marnadal Valley under the blazing sun with hundreds other, moaning and groaning for some sort of relief</em>. But Jaskier only whispers, “The war.” And that is all he has to say in return because even a fool knows the misery that comes with war—the misery that comes with <em>him</em>.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Geralt says quietly. <em>Sincerely</em>.</p><p>“There’s no need.”</p><p>Because it was his doing. He could have stopped it and saved her but he did not—at least, not until it was too late. Not until nothing else mattered more than her stuttering breaths. And that will stay with him for as long as—well, as long as gods live, Jaskier supposes.</p><p>“We should sleep,” he murmurs after a moment, signalling that they have reached the end of the subject and Geralt does not argue. Only tucks Jaskier under the blanket with a tender look in his eyes. And Jaskier moves to blow out the candles on the bedside table before he lies back with a heavy sigh and stares at the ceiling.</p><p>And for what feels like hours, he remains as such, pondering about nothing and everything all at once. Recalling his memories of sweltering heat and thick dripping blood. Of war cries and desperate pleas. Then, he turns to his side, faces where Geralt lays.</p><p>It is well deep into the night and they have, perhaps, less than a handful more hours left before daylight comes spilling through the window of their room but here he is, wide awake and haunted by the past once more as he stares solemnly at Geralt’s back through the thick darkness—</p><p>Until he is not.</p><p>Geralt shuffles in the tiny bed that they share until Jaskier is staring into amber eyes once more, incredibly bright and yet gentle in the dark instead of piercing and invasive much like Jaskier expected them to be. Like all those nights ago when they first met. And for one quiet moment, they stay staring at one another.</p><p>“Would you be opposed to a hug?” Jaskier asks softly as if afraid to disturb the silence any further.</p><p>Geralt does not offer Jaskier a reply. Instead, he stares and stares, eyes flickering with emotions Jaskier cannot quite decipher until the silence stretches just a little too long for it to remain comfortable.</p><p>Finally, Jaskier blurts out, “I’m sorry.” And his mind fumbles with the list of excuses flitting about in his mind. Foolish of him, Jaskier thinks, to crave affection from one who barely knows him—can perhaps barely even accept who he is. “Sorry, I don’t—I don’t actually know what I was think—<em>oh</em>.”</p><p>Strong arms pull him in, one sliding around his neck with fingers weaving into his hair and another curls around his waist while Geralt offers him no words in return. And the man pulls him in closer and closer until Jaskier is able to rest his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder, his nose overwhelmed by Geralt’s scent and a hint of that sweet smelling soap. Jaskier is as rigid as a tree, he realizes, until the man begins tracing patterns onto a patch of skin at the small of his back. And he finally relaxes, nuzzles closer until his lips graze Geralt’s collarbone and allows his eyes to slip shut.</p><p>“You smell of guilt,” Geralt whispers.</p><p> “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Of pain. Of tragedy. You smell like all the bad things in the world smashed together. Like,” the man pauses and Jaskier thinks that he is trying to find the right words. Most fitting. And it will take a while because Geralt is no poet. No champion bard. So Jaskier waits and waits until, “Like the smell of a battlefield without the blood.”</p><p>He huffs and tries to make a joke out of it. “I smell <em>that</em> bad?”</p><p>And when Geralt grunt, irritated by the response, Jaskier knows that this is one conversation that the man will not simply let slide.</p><p>“It’s not the first time I’ve smelt it on you,” Geralt adds and his arms around Jaskier tightens a fraction. “It sticks wherever you go but it’s stronger when you’re—” he stops abruptly and struggles for a moment. Then, “When we met in that forest and you told me to drive my sword through you? <em>This</em>. This scent is how I knew you weren’t kidding.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier murmurs because what else can he say?</p><p>He only wants to make it stop—these intrusive voices in his head whispering to him of what he has done and what he <em>will</em> do once more as if life is one cycle Jaskier is bound to repeat for eternity. And well, he has to admit that it scares him. And now that he is in a mortal body, perhaps the unsavoury ways of mortals will grant him <em>something</em>. Perhaps not death—not when his essence still remains that of a deity’s but something to make it <em>stop</em>.</p><p>“Let me take care of you,” Geralt whispers to him uncertainly. “Like you said, we’ve not known each other for long but still, I already <em>know</em> you. Maybe not entirely but—” and his voice cracks just a little, his breathing heavy. “Fuck, will you let me keep you safe?”</p><p>It should be laughable, Jaskier thinks, for a man to offer support to a god. Gifted, Geralt is not just <em>any</em> man. He is a witcher, strong and skilled. Still, it <em>should</em> be laughable. Mother would have certainly laughed. Love would have snickered at the very idea of it. And yet, Jaskier does not.</p><p>“Alright,” he decides even when there are those Geralt will never be able to protect him from. And then, seeing an opening, he adds, “But it has to go both ways.”</p><p>The man pulls back—not far, just enough for them to look at each other. “What?” he asks, brows furrowing.</p><p>“I get to keep you safe too,” Jaskier clarifies quickly because Ciri never turns away a helping hand but Geralt, well, the man is a different case altogether. He is always scrambling to care for everyone else but never himself.</p><p>There is a pause.</p><p>“<em>Fine</em>,” the man grunts.</p><p>“So,” Jaskier begins. “The contract.” And that earns him a long groan, making him laugh as the air between them grows a fraction lighter once more. “None of that, Geralt. Look, even <em>I</em> know that you’re still going to take it up no matter how many frowns Ciri directs your way.”</p><p>“She hasn’t yelled at me yet, at least,” Geralt murmurs, seeming deep in thought for a moment.</p><p>“That’s only because she asked me to go with you,” he tells the man. Then, corrects himself. “<em>Begged</em> actually.”</p><p>“And you?” Geralt asks softly. “What do you want?”</p><p>“I’d like to not traumatize the poor girl because her father is simply too daft at times,” he states with brows raised, challenging the man to argue with his words. And when Geralt does not—that is, if he takes the glare right out of the equation—Jaskier grins, proud of himself. “I’m not that easy to be rid of, darling.”</p><p>“Hmm,” is all the man offers before burrowing his face into Jaskier’s hair.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Is what you're living for, worth dying for?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning for slight violence and injuries toward the end.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is—to put it lightly, out of sort but if Geralt has to be more precise about it, then the bard is <em>frantic</em>. And well, he admits, Jaskier is a lot of things—easily disgusted, oddly talented and awfully talkative but the bard has never been outright <em>frantic</em> about anything at all. Or at least, neither Geralt nor Ciri thinks so.</p><p>Jaskier paces from one end of the room to the other with staggering breaths and since the room is almost painfully modest, Geralt has completely lost count of how many rounds the other has done in the span of a minute. Then, abruptly, he halts, ponders on something for another moment longer before he settles at the edge of Ciri’s bed, next to her.</p><p>“Here,” the bard says and places a pouch—almost bursting with coins, into the palm of Ciri’s hands.</p><p>In return, she frowns at the pouch, narrows her eyes at Jaskier but offers not a word to either of them.</p><p>She likes Jaskier—Geralt <em>knows</em> this and thinks, the bard is aware of it as well. It is obvious that she has grown far too attached to Jaskier for it to be anything else. But the thing is, she also hates anyone and everyone who frets unnecessarily over her well-being—Geralt, himself, completely <em>not</em> excluded from this sentiment. And, well, that is <em>exactly</em> what Jaskier has been doing for the past half hour—<em>fretting</em>.</p><p>“In case we don’t come back,” Jaskier adds with a heavy sigh and a frown of his own as he stares at the pouch, completely unaware of everything else except for his anxiety.</p><p>Geralt sighs at this. “We’re going to make it back.”</p><p>Jaskier shoots him a pointed stare. “You don’t know that,” the other says. “You’re being paid a whole lot of coins, Geralt. For all we know, it could be a big fucking dragon that goes around eating people in the dark of—”</p><p>“You’ll be <em>fine</em>,” Ciri stresses.</p><p>And at the same time, Geralt interjects, “We’re in <em>Novigrad</em>, Jaskier. There <em>cannot</em> be a gods damn <em>dragon. Here.”</em></p><p>“Right, well. You never know, you know, so it doesn’t hurt to just—” Jaskier stops and takes a deep breath before he stands up abruptly and heads quietly to the door. And as he reaches for the flimsy latch, he turns to Ciri with a small smile. “No mischievous acts without me, alright?”</p><p>She softens at that and returns the smile with a wink. “No promises.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs, shakes his head and in a single breath, he is out of the room.</p><p>Geralt huffs aloud as he watches the door swings shut with a loud creak behind Jaskier, taking all of the noises in the room along as the bard goes. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” he grunts after silence finally has the chance to settle between them. And when he hears Ciri scoffs, he turns to look at her, brows raised questioningly. “What’s <em>that</em> for?”</p><p>“You act all tough but when it comes to him, you’re this gooey mess of affection,” she says before throwing him a disgusted look. “I’ve seen it quite clearly, Geralt. You don’t have to pretend around <em>me</em>, of all people.” And there is a devilish smirk on her face now that awfully resembles Jaskier’s—the one that tells him the bard is up to no good.</p><p>Geralt purses his lips as he feels heat begins crawling up the back of his neck at her words. “I—” he stops and frowns. He does not quite know how to respond to that because, well, he certainly does not <em>hate</em> it. No matter how exasperating the bard can be at times.</p><p>Actually, he thinks, make that <em>most</em> of the time.</p><p>“I refuse to grace that with a respond,” he finally tells her which only widens the smirk on her face as Ciri stares at him, green eyes sparkling with delight. He huffs, points one finger at her and sternly says, “Behave.”</p><p>She laughs, loud and bright. “When have I <em>ever</em> misbehaved?”</p><p>And he thinks, all the time now, actually.</p><p>Jaskier is a bad influence.</p><p> </p><p>He spots Jaskier through a window on the first floor of the inn, the bard waving at passing strangers while waiting for him right outside of the establishment. And for a moment, Geralt pauses as he gazes out, observing the other with what little time he has to himself. </p><p>Jaskier is wearing a grey doublet today, embroidered with tiny colourful flowers at the sleeves and paired with an equally grey trousers. This is a new set, Geralt thinks and Jaskier looks good in it, despite the fact that the choice of colour seems to have muted the other’s vibrant energy by a fraction. And then, Geralt thinks, nothing can quite rip Jaskier away from his own inherent liveliness.</p><p>And then, Geralt realizes the fact that Jaskier has barely bothered to wound himself in a cloak, may it be to preserve anonymity or even to ward off the coming cold. Of course, Ciri asked him about it once and with an incredulous look on his face, the other simply replied, <em>I do not need to. For the cold then, perhaps yes but to remain out of sight? I already am, poppet. No one recognizes me in this form. Not here. At least, not like this</em>—which, whenever Geralt recalls the string of words in the privacy of his own mind, it ultimately throws him right back to the question of whether or not Jaskier is a genuine god.</p><p>Geralt huffs out tiredly and tightens his own cloak around himself, lowering his hood until he is certain that none will catch a glimpse of his odd eyes before he pushes out the door and into the quiet early morning street of Novigrad.</p><p>There will be more days after the contract, he tells himself. Definitely more days to dwell on the bard’s state of being.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he calls as he approaches the other and frowns when he finally takes in the way Jaskier has one foot tapping against the ground ceaselessly and fingers fiddling restlessly with the strap of the other’s satchel. “If you’re this much of a wreck, then you can just stay here with Ciri. Keep an eye on her while I settle this contract.”</p><p>And this manages to snap Jaskier out of his own thoughts as the bard tuts. “No, no, I’m <em>definitely</em> coming with you,” he says sternly with a shake of his head.</p><p>Gentler, Geralt asks, “Tell me, what’s bothering you?”</p><p>The bard shrugs in return before offering him an almost sheepish smile. “It’s just,” Jaskier pauses, seeming to mull over his own words for a second. “It’s been a while since I’ve been expecting a fight. A <em>proper</em> one, I mean. Not some rumble with a few drunken and greedy thugs.”</p><p>“A proper fight,” he echoes and the words feel stilted even coming from his own tongue because <em>there</em> it is again—a hint of what life was like for Jaskier before him and Ciri. And Geralt desperately wants to ask the question that will finally settle his suspicion once and for all—like, <em>can you prove to me that you are a god?</em> Or perhaps, <em>will you do godly things like turning frogs into handsome princes? </em>But what slips through his lips instead is, “You’ve rumbled with thugs before?”</p><p>Because, well, this is <em>Jaskier</em>. God or not, Geralt is positive that the other cannot rumble with thugs <em>once</em> with <em>that</em> kind of physique—all skin and bones as if Jaskier’s mother has never fed him proper meals before—let alone, <em>multiple</em> times.</p><p>The other laughs and just like that, the worries seem to have bled out of him as he stares at Geralt with amusement twinkling in those eyes. “Of course, darling. Who do you take me for? Now, come along,” he says and nods his head to the road going up the hill. “Before anyone else snatches that sweet contract of ours.”</p><p> </p><p>The contract leaflet leaves a lot to be desired. On it is nothing more than ‘<strong><em>WITCHER NEEDED FOR EXTERMINATION OF PESTS</em></strong><em>’ </em>along with the address of one called, Assad Biecki and the reward for the contract—eight hundred crowns.</p><p>And so Jaskier charms the locals as they trudge up the hill, asking for directions with a lilt in his voice that Geralt thinks is entirely unnecessary but has the ladies, along with some men blush up to the tips of their ears. The locals help wherever they can, offering guidance and when they have the chance to get in a few more words, they ask of how long Jaskier will remain in the city. That is, until Geralt pulls the bard along a path that leads the both of them away from the main street, deeper into the city.</p><p>And if Jaskier truly is a god, for a moment, Geralt wonders if he is the god of love.</p><p>Then, before long, the both of them find themselves standing at the entrance of a hut, nestled between the biggest temple Geralt has ever seen in his life and an office building because apparently, Assad Biecki has failed to mention that he is the hierarch of Novigrad—the very priest who runs the free city.</p><p>“I’m not entirely certain we’re not being swindled, darling,” Jaskier pipes up, squinting his eyes in suspicion as he leans in to have a closer look at the nameplate nailed onto the door of the hut. ‘<em>His Holiness of Novigrad,</em>’ it reads. “I mean, <em>surely</em>, they’d have the money for a, um, prettier nameplate if they can pay us eight hundred crowns for this. And isn’t this a temple? Shouldn’t people be here to worship and—” the bard shrugs and gestures around wildly. “You know, <em>stuff</em>?”</p><p>Geralt hums before he turns from the hut to face the old man who has been standing quietly behind the both of them since they first arrived. And Jaskier startles next to him when he finally notices the other man but remains quiet where he stands.</p><p>“I take it you’re Biecki,” Geralt says. Then, “What happened here?” he asks because Jaskier is right. This place is too quiet, too devoid of people to be a place of worship and Geralt can even pick up the faint traces of old blood in the air.</p><p>“You hunters, then? Here for the contract?” the priest calls to the both of them and when Geralt allows for his hood to slip, to reveal to the man the set of slitted eyes and white hair, the priest’s eyes harden and his lips are set into a thin line at the sight in front of him. “I’ll be damned,” he murmurs, staring at Geralt with clear disgust. “A mutant on holy ground.”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt sighs, exasperated while next to him, Jaskier seems to stiffen.</p><p>Religious figures are often harder to deal with. He has not once managed to convince them that he, in fact, does not feast on newborns and neither does he drink blood rather than wine. But, then again, these are the same people who see him as nothing more than mere tools. Nothing more than a barn owl to clean their paddy fields off rats. It will not grant him much, Geralt thinks, if he somehow manages to convince them, anyway.</p><p>“What is it, then?” he asks again and when the priest does not immediately turn them away, he thinks, they must be desperate, then. To hire the service of a mutant, of all people. “What seems to be the problem?”</p><p>The priest’s demeanour shifts at that and his tired eyes dart around the space all around them as if he is expecting something to jump out at any moment. “We found a hidden tunnel under the temple a couple of weeks ago and it leads deep into the earth. It was sealed off when we found it and we understand now that it is for a very good reason,” he explain slowly and does not try to even hide the shudder that passes him. “The creatures we set free killed so many of our brothers—their insides, completely devoured but we have yet to receive any reports on dead bodies from outside of the temple grounds. So we can only assume that whatever’s in there have only been lurking around the temple, only feasting when the sun is gone too.”</p><p>“Have you seen it?” Geralt prods further, brows furrowing.</p><p>“No, gods, no,” the priest shakes his head quickly. “No one has seen them and come out alive.”</p><p>“What makes you so sure that there’s a whole group of them, then?”</p><p>The priest glares at him. “Twelve of our brothers have perished and you’re telling me this is the work of <em>one</em> beast? You’re a witcher, aren’t you? Ought to be cleverer than this, no?”</p><p>Twelve men is enough of a body count for <em>anyone</em> to expect a group of beasts. But a group of beasts also means the sighting of at least <em>one</em> of the beasts and the fact that none alive has seen anything, tells Geralt enough.</p><p>“You insult the witcher again and I’ll take more than just your eight hundred crowns,” Jaskier speaks next to Geralt, his voice harsh and the blue in his eyes seem to burn as he stares at the priest. And there is something in the tone of his voice that tells Geralt that he is not bluffing. The priest seems to hear it as well as the man stares warily at the bard and takes one step away from the both of them. “If we kill this thing for you, you promise to deliver?”</p><p>“Bring its head and I will pay you the written amount.”</p><p> </p><p>“So what can you tell me about this <em>thing</em> that we’re hunting?”</p><p>Geralt scents the damp air and allows the palm of his hand to graze the rocky wall of the tunnel as they step deeper into it. <em>A tunnel that leads deep into the earth</em>—he thought the statement was a simple exaggeration coming from the terrified mind of an old man but now, as they push deeper in and the air all around them grows colder. And <em>much</em> colder, making their exposed skins prick none too gently, Geralt starts to entertain the idea that perhaps the priest was right.</p><p>The darkness is thick and terrifying down here and the silence even more overwhelming. Neither of them has any way of telling time nor space and the disorientation from this alone is enough to inflict great damage to one’s mind. So when Geralt keeps Jaskier close to him, he does not quite know if it is for his own sake or the bard’s. And, well, either way he does not mind. Not even when Jaskier prattles on.</p><p>“You should’ve stayed back at the entrance,” he grumbles half-heartedly, instead of answering the bard’s question. Like his own cloak, he thinks. Safe and sound.</p><p>“I can take care of myself,” Jaskier huffs petulantly in return because Jaskier is not Jaskier if he is not stubborn in some ways. “Now, this <em>thing</em>,” he starts again from where he walks right behind Geralt. “Tell me about it—whatever you know about it because I don’t want to jump into this entirely clueless.”</p><p>Geralt snorts loudly at that. “You already have,” he tells the bard and restrains himself from reminding the other of how they are already well into the tunnel and Jaskier still barely knows anything of the contract. </p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier scoffs and Geralt can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Shut up.”</p><p>Geralt allows silence to settle between them and for a short moment, the tunnel is devoid of everything except for their lights steps and thundering hearts. He recalls the details the priest has provided him with, then runs through them once more with his own judgement attached to every single one of the details.</p><p>This creature is fast and strong—incredibly so, judging by the number of victims it has devoured in such a short time. And it is not selective of what it feasts on, either. It cannot be necrophage, he deduces—too slow. And while higher vampires are often fast and strong, most are vain creatures—they will want to be known by everyone and everything. They will want to be <em>feared</em>.</p><p>No, this is something else. Something he does not know.</p><p>“Geralt?” the bard calls to him with slight worry.</p><p>Whatever this creature is, it makes him nervous.</p><p>“I’m not certain of what it is,” he tells the other in all honesty.</p><p>“But you <em>are</em> certain that it is a bigger trouble than what you formerly expected?” Jaskier offers.</p><p>“Don’t think it’s worth eight hundred crowns, if that’s what you’re actually asking me,” he replies quietly. “It took down a lot of men in the past couple of weeks. Whatever it is, is strong. <em>Really</em> strong and quick on its feet too.”</p><p>“You’re not just any men, though.”</p><p>True enough, he figures but Geralt still says, “We’re still in trouble.”</p><p>“Hey,” Jaskier calls out gently from behind and Geralt pauses, turning his body just enough to see the bard staring tenderly at the space where he stands, blue eyes unfocused in the dark. “I have your back, no matter what. That’s what we promised, remember?”</p><p>And with no one to witness it, Geralt blushes at those words as his mind recalls last night and their whispered promise. And, he thinks, it does not matter now that they may not have the strength to do so. Jaskier is right. They sealed a promise and they will try to keep it. As best as they can.</p><p>So he says, “And I have yours.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>Geralt stills right after and cants his head to the side. He listens. “Shh,” he says as quietly as he can manage.</p><p>“Oh, that’s incredibly rude of you. I thought we were having a moment.”</p><p>“Jaskier, shut up.”</p><p>And Geralt hears it clearly this time—the continuous eerie clicks which are interrupted by gentle growls after every few seconds. And by the sharp intake of breath he hears from the other, he knows Jaskier hears it as well. Even to his ears, the sounds are subdued but if Jaskier is able to hear it, then it is close to the both of them. But there is no proper way of confirming where exactly it is in this darkness and Geralt curses.</p><p>He steps back until he bumps into the bard before he reaches out to curl his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist. “Stay close to me,” he whispers, squinting through the dark while his other hand trails down to his hip for his vials of <em>Thunderbolt</em> and <em>Full moon</em> before he uncorks them and downs both liquids in a single gulp. Geralt blows out a heavy breath, feeling the uncomfortable sting as the potions take effect, turning his skin pale and his veins black. Then, he reaches back to unsheathe his silver sword.</p><p>“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Jaskier replies and Geralt hears another <em>shink</em> of a blade as the bard unsheathes his own dagger.</p><p>He gives Jaskier’s wrist another affirming squeeze before he lets go and sets one foot in front of the other, all of his senses on high alert. Geralt scents the air once more as they hear the same set of clicks and growls but catches nothing more than wet earth and the bard’s apprehension.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Geralt has the chance to think before a heavyweight slams into him, squeezing the air entirely out his lungs and he hears Jaskier yelps as they crash harshly into one another but thinks the other may have managed to stumble further back. Because when Geralt falls, his back meets the earth instead of another body.</p><p>When Geralt regains his focus, his eyes immediately fall on the creature hunched atop his chest, almost crushing his ribs with its weight. It clicks and growls at him with saliva dripping from its open maw. And from what he can tell, the creature does not have any eyes but in spite of it, he <em>feels</em> it staring at him—<em>observing</em> his reactions. And Geralt observes it right back.</p><p>He would have mistaken the creature for a human if not for its elongated cranium and that blade-tipped tail, swishing almost languidly behind it. Geralt has never seen anything quite like it before, not even as sketches in bestiaries and so the creature fascinates him just as much as it unsettles him.</p><p>“Oh, not on my sight,” the snarl snatches Geralt’s attention as it does the creature’s, its head perking up before it stares at the space where, Geralt guesses, the other stands. It clicks and it growls but it does not move to attack.</p><p>Then, for a brief minute, there is a strange hum in the air that originates from neither Geralt nor the creature crouching atop of him. And with the hum, he notices the faint glow that follows it, illuminating the tunnel and making the creature growls just a little louder before they plunge into deep darkness once more.</p><p>“Jaskier?” he calls out, quiet enough to not provoke a violent reaction from the creature.</p><p>Geralt receives the familiar whistle of a blade as an answer, as it slices through air and not long after, he catches the bard’s dagger whizzing right above him before embedding itself into the creature’s head—dead centre. And the silence in the tunnel shatters completely as the creature shrieks, more out of anger rather than pain before its tail swishes toward Jaskier.</p><p>“Fuck no, you don’t.”</p><p>Geralt moves quickly before it can inflict injuries on the bard, tightening his grip around his silver sword while his other hand seizes the creature by its throat. It growls as he flips them around and the creature thrashes beneath him, maw snapping angrily for him. And Geralt has a moment to be satisfied with gaining the upper hand before he feels its tail curls around his left leg and he is being pulled off, then immediately slammed against the wall.</p><p>“Geralt!”</p><p>He stumbles onto his feet, blinking away dizziness as he tries to regain his balance. A pained grunt escapes his lips. “’S fine,” he slurs.</p><p>Then, his eyes dart around the tunnel for the creature but they only find Jaskier, standing not too far away, looking slightly rumpled but entirely unharmed. And he notices the way those eyes seem to focus on him this time as if Jaskier can actually see him in the dark. Then, when the bard sends him a reassuring nod, Geralt <em>knows</em> that Jaskier can see him just as well as he can see the other.</p><p>But he stores the knowledge away to ponder upon later. Once the contract is over with, he tells himself.</p><p>And he bends down to pick up his sword from the ground before he closes his eyes, attuning himself to the creature’s every step. Every flick of its tail. There is a knife in its head, Geralt thinks. It should be bleeding but he smells no blood in the air, only the acrid scent of something he does not recognize. And then, he hears the eerie clicks and it sounds restrained, almost as if the creature is trying to be stealthy but unable to contain its excitement at the same time.</p><p>Geralt turns to his right and casts <em>aard</em>. The creature latches onto his arm immediately with a shriek and it pulls him along as it is being thrust backwards by the force of the magic. And they smash into the rocky wall, raining stones all around them in the small space just enough to have Geralt thinking that the tunnel might collapse in on itself before his line of thoughts is cut short when the creature pierces his upper arm with the blade on its tail.</p><p>Through his armour.</p><p>Through his arm.</p><p>And his sword clatters to the ground as he squeezes his eyes shut, a startled scream escaping his lips and—it <em>hurts</em>. Oh fuck, it hurts.</p><p>It pins him to the wall with its tail and leans in, clicking and growling as it does so. When it deems them to be close enough, its maw gapes open and Geralt knows that the creature is done toying with its food—the time has come for it to feast. And he slides his free hand down to his belt, slipping a dagger out from its sheath.</p><p>“Not today,” he growls before slicing its throat with the dagger.</p><p>Geralt does not think, for even a moment, that it will kill the creature. All he needs is for it to step back and away from him just enough for Geralt to take a breather. But what he gets, is quite the opposite.</p><p>It hisses and it flails but its tail does not dislodge from his arm. And it takes Geralt a second too long to realize that his plan has backfired as thick yellow liquid bursts from the creature’s throat, bringing with it the familiar acrid scent and the burning pain of acid as the liquid sprays on his face. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and struggles to push the creature away before it can cause further damage.</p><p>But it will not fucking <em>budge</em>.</p><p>And then, Jaskier is there. Geralt jolts as another body collides with the creature. It shrieks, Jaskier yells and Geralt whimpers as the creature’s tail further tears at his muscles and his skin. And then, the pressure vanishes from him and he hears scuffling not far from where he slumps against the wall, dazed and lightheaded.</p><p>He hears Jaskier’s pained scream, followed by the creature’s thunderous roar.</p><p>“No, no,” he murmurs as his eyes slide open, vision blurry from the acid. He tries to search the ground for his sword because he cannot use what little magic he has like <em>this</em>. At least with his sword, Geralt can coordinate his attack enough from his senses to not harm Jaskier.</p><p>Then, he hears the snap of bones and the tunnel is immediately engulfed in heavy silence. His stomach drops, his heart stops and his breath stutters in his chest. Geralt feels sick.</p><p>“Jask—Jaskier?”</p><p>He stumbles forward on trembling legs, hands reaching out for the walls to steady himself. Geralt sees absolutely nothing and neither can he hear anything at all—</p><p>More bones snap before the tunnel is filled with the disgusting squelch of muscles tearing and then, he hears a heavy thump. But Geralt does not smell blood, only the smell of the creature’s acid. And then, there are footsteps rushing toward him—distinctly human.</p><p>No more clicks. No growls and shrieks. Only the heavy puffs of air coming from the bard.</p><p>A relieved sigh rattles his lungs.</p><p>“There’s evidence for the gods fucking priest.”</p><p>Geralt slumps against the nearest wall.</p><p>“Oh, darling, hey, how badly are you hurt?”</p><p>He feels gentle hands on his arms, trying to steady him but when he hisses, Jaskier pulls back.</p><p>“Tore into my—um, right arm. Really bad,” he says breathlessly. The fight has left his system and he thinks the blood loss is finally getting to him now. His head is spinning. His body feels heavier than it should be. “There’s acid in—in my eyes.”</p><p>“Alright, that’s alright. We can fix those,” Jaskier murmurs in return, sounding as if he is trying to convince himself instead of Geralt. Then, quieter—much too quiet for it to be for anyone else, he asks, “Can’t we?”</p><p>“And you?” Geralt asks, remembering the scream. He shudders. “You ‘right?”</p><p>“I’m fine, darling.”</p><p>He hums and tries to smile at the other. Geralt likes it when Jaskier calls him that.</p><p>“Hey, hey, stay with me. I can’t carry you—”</p><p>There are hands on his hips. Strong, yet gentle with him.</p><p>Geralt wants to take a nap.</p><p>“You absolute idio—”</p><p>So he does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>in this house we actually support xenomorph rights !</p><p>and as always, much love for the support x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(slams table) there will be <i>no</i> break from the hurt.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is exhausted.</p><p>His thoughts are incoherent and he can barely walk on his own, much less with an unconscious witcher clinging onto his limbs and the head of the beast in his free hand. He sets one foot in front of the other and when he blinks, Jaskier realizes that the both of them are careening to the side before they crash harshly into one rocky wall of the tunnel.</p><p>He yelps in a mixture of surprise and pain as the jagged surface drags across his exposed skin while Geralt, the big oaf, only slumps against him with a heavy huff as they slide to the ground. The man does not wake and Jaskier pushes him away with a grunt before he rearranges the heavy limbs until Geralt is leaning back against the wall, legs stretched out and head bent at a strange angle.</p><p>Jaskier reaches up to trace the protruding black veins on the man’s face with gentle fingers before he moves to inspect Geralt’s injuries. And he sucks in a sharp breath when he finds the one on Geralt’s right arm, warm and sticky with thick red blood and—<em>oh</em>, this is bad.</p><p>“Stay with me, Geralt,” he whispers and his words echo throughout the tunnel, only to fall on no other set of ears except for his own.</p><p>He rummages through the contents of his satchel and curses silently when he finds nothing for him to use for a proper tourniquet. So Jaskier slips out of his doublet and immediately ties the piece of cloth around Geralt’s arm as tightly as he can manage instead. And can only hope to all deities that this will be enough to stop the wound from bleeding profusely. To stop Geralt from bleeding out on him. But not a moment passes and his doublet is already almost thoroughly soaked in red, making his heart twists painfully inside of his chest.</p><p>It will have to do for now, he thinks. It <em>has</em> to.</p><p>He is shaking, Jaskier realizes as he retracts his hands from the wound. And he stares at these hands of his—dripping red with the blood of his loved one, one too many times. His breath hitches and Jaskier shakes. And shakes in this darkness with no one to see.</p><p>“Snap out of it.”</p><p>He thinks he hisses the words out but what he hears instead is closer to a desperate sob. And he slaps himself once.</p><p>“Snap out of it!”</p><p>Then, another.</p><p>And another until one side of his face is as slick with blood as his hands.</p><p>Jaskier is exhausted.</p><p>Drained from pumping a fraction of his nature through the system of this flimsy mortal body. He is exhausted, eyes growing unfocused and breaths coming out more ragged as the minutes tick by. But Geralt needs him. And Ciri needs Geralt. And Jaskier will be damned if he allows another one of his loves to die in his arms.</p><p>So he pushes himself onto shaky legs and drags the both of them out of this wretched tunnel.</p><p>
  
</p><p>The old priest receives the evidence that he so wishes for—the head of the beast tossed at his feet with no more than a grunt and a glare from Jaskier. The man trembles where he stands, eyes flicking from the beast’s head to Jaskier’s red-stained face before he frantically throws the pouch of promised crowns to Jaskier, stammering words that none can quite clearly make out.</p><p>And all the while, Geralt sleeps.</p><p>Jaskier hears not even a squeak from his companion as he steals one of the temple’s horses and rushes the both of them back to the inn. Back to where Ciri awaits. And, well, a little more damaged than she is most likely expecting. But <em>alive</em>.</p><p>And afterwards, well, Jaskier does not quite know what transpires afterwards. One moment he is riding down the streets of Novigrad, hands busy steering and keeping Geralt on the horse. And the next, he is waking up with a painful jolt and reaching out for something—for <em>anything</em> to keep himself grounded as his entire body burns like it never has. His eyes feel much like someone managed to carve away one layer after another, a stinging pain that he does not think he will forget anytime soon. And he squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>He screams.</p><p>“Jaskier!”</p><p>There is something wrong. There is something <em>so</em> wrong with him.</p><p>“Jaskier, stay with me.”</p><p>He is aflame. His entire body has been set aflame.</p><p>“Yen, you <em>have</em> to help… please…”</p><p>“You said… a god… don’t even know if this…”</p><p>And then, there are hands pinning him down, rough and cold. They make him shiver.</p><p>“What… do something, <em>please</em>!”</p><p>He feels fingers on his forehead now, pressing down hard enough into his skin to bruise. And he thinks they might slither under his skin and into his mind. He screams a little louder at the very idea of it.</p><p>Or perhaps it is due to something else.</p><p>And then, blissfully enough, there is nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier blinks awake and immediately flinches at the onslaught of blinding light. He blinks twice more until his vision settles and he is able to drink in his surrounding without giving himself a headache.</p><p>He is laying in a bed. A bed that, decidedly, does not come from the inn in Novigrad, judging from the intricately carved frame and the soft silk sheets he is drowning in. And when he looks around, he realizes that though the room is small, it is still well-decorated. Too lavish, he thinks to himself. Everything is too lavish for Jaskier to simply be in an inn somewhere. He is in someone’s home. And then, he thinks, <em>fuck</em> because somewhere between the temple and the inn, he blacked out.</p><p>So where are Geralt and Ciri now? Are they safe? Is Geralt alive? Where the fuck is <em>he</em>?</p><p>“Good,” a voice calls out, low and sharp, startling him out of his own thoughts. This is one voice he does not recognize. “You’re awake.”</p><p>And then, Jaskier is staring into deep violet eyes and at dark red lips. Long midnight black hair tickles his cheeks as the lady leans down close enough for him to feel her warm breath caressing his skin. There is a frown marring her face and bright anger flaring in her eyes but neither seems able to tarnish the beauty that she holds.</p><p>And oh, Jaskier has to admit how devastatingly beautiful she is.</p><p>He does not realize that the frown and the anger are directed at him. At least, not until she climbs swiftly onto the bed and straddles him before digging the sharp tip of a blade into the skin on his chest—right where his heart resides,</p><p>Well, he supposes, there are definitely worst things to wake up to.</p><p>“Where are they?” he rasps and winces immediately when he feels a sting in his throat. After a short moment, he asks again, “The girl and the witcher, where are they?”</p><p>“I’ve read all of the tales written about you,” she says instead with slight fascination in her voice but, he notices, the anger does not disappear. Then, she leans in closer until her lips graze his ear and her cheek brushes lightly against his. “I know <em>exactly</em> what you are and I know <em>exactly</em> what you’ve done, wild one,” she whispers but it does not sound much like a threat. It sounds more like she is sharing a secret with him.</p><p>Jaskier huffs out a breath and gently pushes her away, enough for him to search those eyes again for truth. And he finds it. So he whispers back, “If you know exactly what I am, then you know that it doesn’t take much for me to rip your heart right out of your chest.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re quite adorable,” she laughs and sits up. “You’re in no position to threaten me.”</p><p>“Because you have a blade inches away from my heart?”</p><p>He would have jumped at the chance, Jaskier thinks, to be at the end of a blade like this while someone brave enough to pierce his heart grips the hilt. But things, well, things have changed. The voices in his head are quiet most of the time now. The grief, while still overwhelming at times, are easier to handle now with Ciri and Geralt at his side.</p><p>“Oh, no, no, we both know that only a god can kill another god,” she replies with amusement in her eyes. “It’s actually because you’ve overexerted yourself, wild one. You may have godly powers but your vessel, here—” and she pats his cheek harshly with her free hand while the other remains locked around the dagger. “—is still as mortal as can be.”</p><p>And it gets a little harder to breathe when he hears that. Someone who knows this much on how Jaskier functions must not mean well for either him or those he travels with.</p><p>“My friends, where are they?”</p><p>She sighs, sounding disappointed and lifts the blade from his chest to mindlessly twirl it around with her fingers. “I thought a god would be more interesting, if we’re being honest here. But you’re just so,” she sighs once more. Then, “Both, Ciri and Geralt are fine. That is, if you don’t count the fact that the witcher’s been a little more of an arse since he woke up.”</p><p>Jaskier narrows his eyes and props himself up with his elbows. “You,” he pauses for a second. “You <em>know</em> them?”</p><p>She scoffs in return. “Ciri’s mine as much as she is Geralt’s.”</p><p>“Hold on,” he almost shouts, eyes wide as realization dawns on him. “Scary woman with pretty eyes! <em>You’re</em> Yennefer? <em>The</em> Yennefer?”</p><p>Jaskier has heard of her, of course. Hard not to. He hears bits and pieces from common folk, and a story or two from Geralt and Ciri. <em>A witch as dangerous as she is still beautiful</em>, is how most describe her. And how right they all are.</p><p>Red painted lips stretch into a thin smile at his string of questions and she says, “Took you long enough to catch on. Come now, your meal awaits.” And then, before he can blink, she buries the dagger into his flesh—right at the centre of his palm. And as if nothing has happened, she lifts herself off him with a more genuine smile.</p><p>“Oh, for heavens’ sakes!” he shouts, staring at his left hand which is now pinned to the bed.</p><p>“That’s for everything else,” she tells him simply with enough venom in her voice to make an entire army soil their trousers. Then, he sees her mood shifts, lightening as she nods toward the only door out of the room. “Come,” she calls to him, gentler this time. “They’ve been waiting for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier does not follow Yennefer out the door immediately, opting instead to take his time exploring the house. The room he has been placed in is one of the two on the second floor and he guesses, by the gothic decors as well as the stacks after stacks of books on alchemy and spells, the other room belongs to Yennefer.</p><p>And he cannot hold back the shudder running up his spine at the mere thought of being unconscious in such close proximity to the sorceress. But unpleasant as she is, he supposes she has a heart. Somewhere. Deep down. <em>Very</em> deep down. Because neither Geralt nor Ciri has ever spoken ill of her. Every mention of her name is always followed by love and warmth.</p><p>There is not much else for him to see on the second floor, he concludes after a moment. Two rooms with neither of his companions in either of them, and a lone window at the one end of the hallway, dimly illuminating the space. So Jaskier moves to the other end of the hallway where he finds a set of stairs that spirals down to the ground level and he hops down slowly, mindful of his still aching body and the new wound.</p><p>He huffs as he takes another step down, eyes darting to his neatly bandaged hand before they return to the steps.</p><p>At least, he thinks, Yennefer is decent enough to stab him in a place where he can easily spot an aid kit. It will heal with time. That is, unless he offends her in some unknown way yet again, in which case, Jaskier may need to start bidding farewell to unblemished skin.</p><p>Then, for one disconnected second, he wonders if Geralt will find scars on him, well, <em>sexy</em>.</p><p>“Jaskier!”</p><p>His head snaps up, startled out of his own thoughts as he finally lands onto solid ground. Then, a grin spreads wide across his face as he registers the figure running toward him. A flash of blonde hair and green eyes and then, she is here, in his arms as much as he is in hers. Ciri blows out a contented sigh before she retracts herself to assess his condition from the top of his head to the tip of his toes with serious eyes.</p><p>When her eyes land on his bandaged hand, Jaskier immediately shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he mutters. Then, gentler, he says, “I’m alright, poppet. Are you?”</p><p>“Fantastic now that you’re up and walking again. Geralt’s fine too, arm healed up nicely. He’s talking to Yen for now,” she tells him with a smile that melts his heart. Then, Ciri tugs him gently at his arm before she leads him through a doorway and into a kitchen—small and smelling of warm meat and fresh breads. “You should eat. You’ve been out for two days—more or less, and well, we couldn’t get anything in you except for drops of water because Yennefer is already burnt out from fixing the hole in Geralt’s arm to help you digest something solid, so you must be—”</p><p>His stomach rumbles, cutting her off abruptly and Ciri giggles at the sound as she pulls out a chair for him at the table.</p><p>“—starving,” she finishes.</p><p>“Two days?” he echoes and frowns despite the plate of meat, bread and cheese Ciri places on the table for him. “How long has it been since we came back from the contract?”</p><p>“Almost three days,” she tells him and settles on the seat across from his with a plate of her own. Though, Jaskier notes, hers is piled high with only cheese and meat.</p><p>His frown deepens and he thinks, <em>this is not good</em>. He has exposed himself in Novigrad. Right now, mother is either closing in on him or—well, three days is plenty of time. Even more so when you are a deity. And Jaskier shudders to think that mother is already here. Watching him. Watching <em>them</em>.</p><p>“Nothing’s happened since the contract?”</p><p>This time, it is Ciri’s turn to frown. “Are you expecting trouble?” she asks, confusion clear in her eyes. “Geralt said you managed to kill the creature in the tunnel.”</p><p>“We did but that’s not quite it.” And he pushes himself up, meal long forgotten. “There’s something else. Look, I need to—”</p><p>He hears a heavy set of footsteps nearing the both of them and Jaskier turns his attention to the doorway, eyes landing on bandages wrapped around pale skin and a mess of tangled white hair.</p><p>“Geralt,” he breathes out when his eyes meet amber ones. “You’re—” <em>Alive. Breathing. Well.</em> He does not quite know which is more appropriate, so Jaskier allows silence to fill it in for him instead.</p><p>Then, Yennefer struts in, bringing with her an air of authority. “Pray tell, wild one, why exactly are you expecting trouble?”</p><p>He scowls at her and though it is not what he wishes to say, the words still roll off his tongue and escape his lips. “I don’t owe <em>you</em> an explanation,” he snaps while the wound on his hand throbs just a little stronger. And he continues to glare at her as she takes the empty seat next to Ciri.</p><p>“No, I suppose not,” she says in return before stealing a bread from his plate. “But you owe <em>them</em> an explanation and they are as important to me as you think they are to you. Well?” she prompts, leaning back in her chair and biting into the bread.</p><p>“It’s because you used your power, isn’t it?” Their heads whip to the man as Geralt steps slowly toward the last empty seat at the table—the one next to Jaskier. “Back in the tunnel, <em>that’s</em> how you could see in the dark. <em>That’s</em> how you managed to kill the creature,” he continues and stares at Jaskier with recognition in his eyes.</p><p>“I used some of it, yes,” Jaskier confirms with a hesitant nod. Because if he did not, Geralt would be as good as dead now.</p><p>“And what’s the problem with that?” Yennefer prods further.</p><p>There is a heavy silence in the kitchen that he hesitates to fill.</p><p>“I think it’s time you tell us what’s really going on with you,” Geralt says and though his tone is far from demanding, Jaskier hears the steel in it that the man only uses when he is wary. When he is not certain if something is to be feared or quite the opposite.</p><p>Still, Jaskier hesitates. There are things even the great witcher will not wish to know.</p><p>“God or not, you’re in my house now,” Yennefer tells him. “So spit it out.”</p><p>Jaskier slumps back down onto his seat and stares at everywhere else but the three sets of eyes trained on him. He takes a shaky breath in and quietly, asks, “What do you know about the Stygian Star?”</p><p>“There was a prophecy about it. A very old one—centuries old, perhaps,” Yennefer is the one to provide him with an answer, sounding deep in thought as she says so. Then, she begins to recite the prophecy slowly, line by line that Jaskier has memorized for as long as he has been alive.</p><p>
  <em>Which will destroy and which will rule,<br/>
The Stygian Star or the Lion Cub,<br/>
One is the beginning and the other is the end,<br/>
Alone they will remain with the world,<br/>
And rise above.</em>
</p><p>“You’d have to be a fool to not have figured out who the Lion Cub is,” Yennefer says and at that, heads turn to Ciri. “But no one’s ever known who the Stygian Star is or if they even exist.”</p><p>“She did exist,” Jaskier tells them but his voice is no more than a whisper and his eyes remain on Ciri, seeing what he has long lost. “Even for a short time.”</p><p>“Your daughter…” Geralt trails off, seeming unsure of himself until Jaskier offers him a nod. And then, the pieces seem to finally connect for him.</p><p>“Well, not <em>exactly</em> my daughter,” he admits with a shake of his head. “At least, not by blood but I did look after her for most of her life,” and for a moment, he pauses and drags his eyes away from Ciri. “Some say that I ended it for her as well and it’s, well, I suppose it’s hard to argue with that. Not when you know everything,” he says before his gaze settles on Yennefer. “You said you’ve read all about me. Tell them what you know.”</p><p>Violet eyes take him in for one moment too long, making him squirm under her serious gaze until Yennefer nods. “Different religions call him different names but what he is in his simplest form is war. And well, you can expect the tales to be nothing but blood and gore. None of them pretty, not even the ones which have been desensitized for children,” she pauses before narrowing her eyes at him. “This war with Nilfgaard and the kings vying for the ultimate power, are these your doing too?”</p><p>Jaskier nods slowly.</p><p>To his side, Geralt’s hands ball into tight fists.</p><p>“Your daughter,” Ciri begins tentatively. “The Stygian Star, what happened to her?”</p><p>“Cintra has their Lion Cub,” Jaskier takes in a breath. “Nilfgaard had their Stygian Star. Her name was Lucia and all her life she’d been taught that, at one point in her life, she’d have to fight you, the prophesied Lion Cub. And <em>I</em> was the one who trained her for it,” he tells her sincerely. “The battle at Marnadal Valley, that was supposed to be where it happened. You and her.”</p><p>“But instead of me, grandmother was the one to show,” Ciri whispers.</p><p>“Lucia was an excellent warrior but she didn’t have as much experience as Calanthe.”</p><p>“Grandmother never allowed me to glimpse the wars she fought, to be as much of a warrior as she was. And that was all because of the prophecy, wasn’t it?”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>“But Nilfgaard <em>did</em> win the war,” Yennefer says matter-of-factly. “Cintra fell and Calanthe died.”</p><p>Ciri winces.</p><p>Geralt’s knuckles turn white.</p><p>“And yet, the Lion Cub is here with us. Alive and well,” he says. “<em>One is the beginning and the other is the end.”</em></p><p>“You knew <em>all</em> of this and you didn’t stop it?” Geralt growls. “You’re a god, aren’t you? You had the power to stop them from sending your own child to war and,” he pauses and barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You decided <em>not</em> to?”</p><p>“You forget, darling,” Jaskier whispers in return and the man flinches at his last word. Something inside of him twists painfully and he looks away. “I am war and back then, it was all I knew. It took me losing my heart to understand that perhaps, I’m capable of more than just destruct—”</p><p>Geralt’s chair crashes to the floor as he stands up abruptly, startling everyone in the room and not long after, the man has fistfuls of Jaskier’s chemise gripped tightly in his hands. He pulls Jaskier close and bares his teeth. And there is only hot anger fuelling the bright amber now as he stares at Jaskier.</p><p>No warmth. No love. Nothing more than flares of fury.</p><p>“So you shovel shit into our lives because you’re just too stupid to—”</p><p>“<em>Geralt</em>.”</p><p>The man stills at the venom in Yennefer’s voice.</p><p>“Might I remind you that you’re <em>not</em> the only one hurting?”</p><p>Geralt shoves him back hard and hisses, “Get out.”</p><p>“Geralt,” Ciri speaks up quickly, pleading with her father.</p><p>“Get. <em>Out</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. And he is not one of us, he has never been one of us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You don’t understand, do you?” Yennefer scoffs and rolls her eyes as soon as the front door clicks shut as Jaskier leaves the three of them with nothing more than pursed lips and a flash of hurt in those bright eyes. She clacks her nails against the wooden table as she waits for an answer, brows raised expectantly.</p><p>“<em>What</em>, don’t I understand, Yen?” Geralt seethes, glaring at her. He steps back until his back collides with the wall and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest. “He’s killed more than we can possibly count because he <em>can</em>. That’s the kind of person he is. What I <em>don’t</em> understand is why neither of you are angrier about this.”</p><p>Violet eyes stare at him for a minute longer, clearly unimpressed with what she is hearing before Yennefer huffs, exasperated. “<em>That’s</em> the problem right there, Geralt,” she shoots back. “You’re considering him like you’d consider a simple human when we all know that he’s <em>not</em>—that he’s a god. Don’t you <em>see</em>? He’s above all of us even in his current state of being, so it doesn’t take much to realize that <em>surely</em> he’s been taught that his actions—whatever it may be, are faultless. That <em>he</em> is faultless.”</p><p>“And now he’s realized that he’s far from it,” Ciri murmurs, more to herself than anyone else.</p><p>“He’s changing his ways, everyone can see <em>that</em> much. Trying to find himself much like a child,” Yennefer continues with a shrug. Then, when she notices the way his face pinches, she points one sharp nail at him and pointedly asks, “He did neither you nor Ciri any harm since you picked him up, did he?”</p><p>“Doesn’t mean that he won’t,” Geralt snaps.</p><p>“It still doesn’t mean that he will,” Ciri bites back with enough fire in her words to stun both of her guardians. And she knows she makes a valid point when she adds, “You’ve hurt countless of people too, Geralt. Some unintentionally. Will you be hurting more?”</p><p>“Look,” Yennefer sighs after a brief and tense pause between the three of them. “I know there’s bad in him and I’m not asking for anyone to forgive him entirely for all that he’s done but Ciri’s right. Perhaps he deserves another chance. And who knows, you may need him just as much as he seems to be needing the both of you.”</p><p>“And why exactly would he need the both of us? We’re nothing compared to a god,” Geralt huffs.</p><p>“That is,” Ciri begins. “If Jaskier still <em>thinks</em> like a god.”</p><p>Yennefer hums in return. “And something tells me that he’s rid that particular habit long ago,” she says before pushing a plate of a full meal toward Geralt—Jaskier’s untouched plate, he realizes. “Go talk to him. Straighten things out, Geralt. I’m sure he means no harm,” and here, she pauses, brows furrowing. “Well, any more than he used to.”</p><p> </p><p>He finds Jaskier a good distance away from Yennefer’s cottage, sitting criss-crossed in the thickets and staring up at the stars littering the night sky as if Jaskier knows the stories behind each and every single one of those flickering fireballs. And Geralt suspects that if not for his enhanced witcher senses, he would not have easily found the bard—the god, <em>fuck</em>, he cannot even wrap his head around what Jaskier truly is.</p><p>He settles himself in the space close to the other before placing the plate of food in between them. Their shoulders do not brush this time like they always do and Geralt does not lean into the heat Jaskier’s body radiates. The string that binds their fates together has now been pulled taut, mere careless words away for it to completely snap.</p><p>“Eat,” Geralt tells him, his tone hard but not unkind. “It’ll be a waste to have you collapse again just because you refuse to eat.”</p><p>He catches the way blue eyes flicker to the bandaged hand and his amber ones follow. <em>And there it is</em>, Geralt muses as he stares at the shimmering gold liquid staining the white cloth. The physical proof that he has been chasing after. <em>Ichor</em>, he thinks. <em>The blood of the gods</em>.</p><p>Then, he watches quietly as Jaskier grabs a bread from the plate and pinches off only an inch of it. He watches as the other nibbles on the small piece after returning the rest of the bread onto the plate. Jaskier does not eat. Only creates an illusion of it, he realizes. And Geralt looks away—to the stars, to the greens and to anything else but the war god sitting next to him.</p><p>“Why us?” he asks after a while. “Ciri must be a constant reminder of Lucia’s death for you and I’m,” he pauses. “I’m not so forgiving when it comes to matters concerning my own daughter,” he says because he knows Jaskier has travelled with him long enough to know that simple fact.</p><p>The other offers not a word in return.</p><p>And Geralt scowls as he stands back up, glaring at the other as Jaskier follows suit. “Damn it, Jaskier,” he shouts. “This may seem like a game to you—manipulating our little mortal lives but it’s hell for the rest of us!”</p><p>“I haven’t considered many things as games for a long time now,” Jaskier retorts through gritted teeth, glaring right back.</p><p>And Geralt thinks, <em>how dare he</em>. Jaskier has <em>no right</em> to be angry. Not when everything that is wrong with the world is the other’s fault to begin with. So he lunges forward and his fist collides against Jaskier’s cheek before he can think twice about it. The other stumbles back, staining the earth with golden blood when Jaskier coughs.</p><p>And knowing that he made the god of war bleed satisfies Geralt more than he will admit aloud.</p><p>“What do you want from us?” he snarls as Jaskier struggles to regain his balance. “Redemption, is that it? To be free of guilt and live your life as if you’re a fucking saint?”</p><p>For a moment, the other stares at Geralt with disbelief in his eyes, one hand covering his wounded cheek. “No,” he whispers almost desperately in return. “None of that. I only want to find a place where I can belong and, you and Ciri, both welcomed me so easily. Neither of you scorned at the love that I give—that <em>War</em> gives, and that is <em>all</em> I want. The freedom to choose my own path, Geralt, surely you’re familiar of that feeling.”</p><p>“And what about those you’ve killed?” Geralt pushes as he steps forward to grip tightly onto the collar of the other’s chemise. Jaskier flinches when he roughly pulls them closer together. “Those you’ve stripped of the freedom to choose, huh? What about <em>them</em>?”</p><p>He knows that there is no point in asking these questions because there is no way to return lives to the dead. But in this moment, it does not matter. He wants to hurt. Wants to hurt Jaskier just as badly as the other has hurt his family. And so he decides to shove and bite, hoping that with enough force, Jaskier will crumble, will bleed a little more.</p><p>“There’s nothing I can do for them,” the other replies quietly, his voice trembling and brows furrowing as if he is having a hard time accepting the fact. “If I could fix the past, I would. Believe me, Geralt but it’s not in my nature to fix things. And I’m <em>so</em> sorry for that—for <em>everything</em>.”</p><p>He loosens his grip on Jaskier’s collar, huffing out a heavy breath but he does not let go. In all honesty, he does not quite know what to do or even how to react to this. Geralt has spent decades of his life wrapped in anger and has only spent half of one pouring care and love to a child he is not even supposed to have.</p><p>And, well, anger is familiar to him but he cannot say the same for love—and it makes him laugh at how the two of them seem to mirror one another and yet, here they stand, on different sides of the line as Geralt stubbornly holds onto this anger of his. The one that tells him to hurt and hurt and hurt.</p><p>“Darling?”</p><p>He startles out of his own thoughts, finally registering the way blue eyes are searching his own with that familiar tenderness that Jaskier always grants him. And Geralt releases his hold on the other abruptly as if he has been scorched.</p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” he growls. “Don’t call me that and don’t look at me like <em>that</em>.”</p><p>Because it is harder for him to hold onto the anger when Jaskier looks at him like that.</p><p>“Like what?” the other asks gently and when he takes a step forward, Geralt staggers back with a threatening glare.</p><p>“Like you love me.”</p><p>Because certainly War is incapable of such an act, is he not?</p><p>“Is it so bad to have me love you?”</p><p>But if War is, indeed, capable of loving, then he thinks, in this moment, the answer is simply—“Yes.”</p><p>Geralt catches the way Jaskier’s eyes dim considerably as surprise and understanding flicker pass before the other takes one step away from him. Then, another and Geralt neither chase after nor flee from the other. But then, he manages to catch a whiff of it—that thick cloying scent of pain.<em> Like a battlefield without the blood</em>. Though, he notes, this time it is fainter as if Jaskier has learnt to conceal it.</p><p>And only then, his anger falters.</p><p>Geralt sighs tiredly and rubs a hand down his face. “I’m being unfair to you, aren’t I?”</p><p>Jaskier only shrugs. “I’ve hurt you, Ciri and even Yennefer for far longer,” he replies. “All is fair.”</p><p>And it twists something inside of him to hear that easy acceptance of being cast aside. For it to come to Jaskier as easily as breathing and it makes him pause. Certainly his anger is not unfounded but perhaps Yennefer and Ciri are right in their judgement. Perhaps the god of war deserves another chance at, well, life, he supposes.</p><p>“I didn’t get to ask,” Jaskier whispers when the tense silence between them has dragged on for too long. “You’re alright? I just—you were in such a bad state after the contract, it scared me.”</p><p>Geralt stares at the other incredulously before huffing and accepting the change of subject. “They’re fine. Yen patched me back up,” he replies curtly. “And you?” he asks with raised brows. “You were practically combusting in your delirium the other night.”</p><p>“Ah,” Jaskier pauses and he looks sheepish for a second. “Miscalculation on my part. It’s, um, tricky to regulate my nature in this form. I’m sorry about that too but you don’t have to worry. I’ll be alright with time.”</p><p>But time, Geralt senses, is a luxury neither of them can afford.</p><p>“Who’s coming after us, Jaskier?”</p><p>“<em>Me</em>,” the other says in return. “<em>’Who’s coming after me’</em> and it’s my mother. The time has come for us to part ways, then, dar—<em>Geralt</em>.”</p><p>He does not miss the slip of the tongue but Geralt pushes the knowledge aside in favour for a more important question. “You will run again?” he asks, frowning at the very idea. <em>Like all those years before we met?</em> He wants to push but immediately decides against it. They have both inflicted enough damage on one another for the night to last them a lifetime, he thinks.</p><p>“Not run, no,” Jaskier replies without hesitation as he shakes his head. Then, he blows out a breath. “This is one confrontation that is long overdue, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“And what happens after?” and for a second, he pauses as he chooses his next words carefully. “Will you come back?” Geralt asks before he has the chance to doubt his own thoughts and feelings.</p><p>Jaskier stares at him, eyes wide with surprise. “You’d have me back?”</p><p>And he hears what Jaskier will not ask, loud and as clear as day—<em>will the other ever be forgiven for the blood he has spilled? For the pain he has caused?</em></p><p>These are the questions he is unable to answer with a simple yes or a straight no in his current state of mind. Conflicted as he is, Geralt knows that he cares enough for Jaskier to want to right the wrongs between the four of them. But the blow of betrayal still stings. It is not hurting any less as minutes tick by and he thinks, it will not hurt any less. At the very least, not any time soon.</p><p>So Geralt simply replies, “You know the way back. The rest, well, we’ll figure those out with time.”</p><p>“You’re sure about this?”</p><p>To welcome Jaskier back would mean to give the other a place to belong.</p><p>Geralt takes the other’s hand in his and squeezes it reassuringly. This, he answers with a simple and quiet <em>yes</em>. It is a promise. Another one made in the dark of the night with nothing but silence to witness their words.</p><p>Jaskier huffs out a shaky laugh and there are tears in his eyes that he will not allow to fall. The corners of his lips wobble as he admits quietly, “I’m yours as long as you and Ciri will have me.”</p><p>“I’m still angry at you,” he tells the other slowly as he pulls Jaskier closer to him. “There’s just so much that you’ve done that I can’t quite forgive. So much we need to talk about but,” he pauses. “I’m sorry if I made you think that you’re alone. You’re not, Jaskier. Not here, at least and not when Ciri holds you close to her heart. Not when you mean more to me than I dare to think of.”</p><p>“You can’t tell me not to love you and say these things to me, Geralt.”</p><p>“It’s unfair of me, I know. It’s all so fucking complicated for me right now,” he says as he leans his forehead against Jaskier’s.</p><p>“I know,” the other whispers. “I know.”</p><p>“But it’s the truth, for both cases.”</p><p>“That’s alright.”</p><p>And his eyes drop to Jaskier’s lips as they move—chapped but still the only one he yearns to feel against his own. So Geralt slowly closes the distance between them without offering the other another word. His heart thunders violently in his chest as he presses a fleeting kiss on them.</p><p>It is nothing more than a mere brush of lips and Geralt is aware of how hesitant he is despite the fact that Jaskier seems to wait almost breathlessly for it. But Geralt has never been a delicate creature and in this moment, he does not wish to hurt.</p><p>Jaskier pulls him back in as soon as they separate and the other leads him into another kiss. This one is a desperate one with Jaskier’s fingers curling tightly around his hair. And the other kisses him as if this is the last kiss they will ever share. As if Jaskier is certain that he will lose Geralt the moment they break away.</p><p>And Geralt <em>has</em> to break the kiss just to reassure.</p><p>“You know the way back,” he rasps. “Just come back.”</p><p>Jaskier nods, panting heavily and squeezes his eyes shut but not before Geralt catches the panic in them and the way they still shine with unshed tears. Geralt presses a kiss to his jaw, then his cheek where an ugly bruise is beginning to take form before Geralt leans forward until their lips brush lightly against each other’s ears.</p><p>“But you understand, don’t you?” the other whispers into his ear softly and full of hesitance. “What it means to have me, of all people, love you and Ciri. I’ll leave and never come back, Geralt. You only have to say the word and I’ll be gone.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” he whispers back, just as soft and just as hesitant.</p><p>“Geralt—”</p><p>“Perhaps I do and perhaps I don’t,” he interjects. “We’ll figure out one thing at a time, Jaskier.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>not me crying while writing that last part.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. I don't think I can ever learn how to love just right</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door creaks loudly when it slides open, no matter how gently Jaskier pushes against it and he winces, murmuring quiet apologies to no one in particular until his eyes land on the familiar pale green, staring at him silently as he steps into the room. Those eyes take him in with slight worry when they land on the bruise on his cheek before they trail down to the tip of his toes, taking in how he is dressed for travelling with his lute case cradled close to his chest. Then, they follow him as Jaskier takes a seat at the edge of the bed, right next to where she lays.</p><p>“You’re leaving,” Ciri says—no, she <em>accuses</em> as she narrows her eyes at him, sitting up in her bed before gentle fingers drift up to trace his discoloured cheek. And he winces when she applies just a little too much pressure on it but does not move away. “Did Geralt force you to leave?” she asks quietly, her tone carefully neutral as if she, herself, has not quite figured out if she wishes for him to stay or to be forever gone.</p><p>“No, nothing like that,” he tells her with a shake of his head. And then, he wonders for a brief minute before he asks the question aloud. “Unless <em>you</em> would like me to leave?”</p><p>After everything he has done, everything that he is, it does not matter what Jaskier wants. If Ciri wishes him gone, then he will leave without protest. Even his promise to Geralt will no longer carry its weight, he thinks because Ciri comes first. For the both of them, she always will.</p><p>“No,” she huffs after a pause and retracts her hand from his face. Jaskier watches as her fingers curl into tight fists atop her blanket and she stares at him as if she has yet to decide whether to punch the lights out of him or squeeze all the air out of his lungs with a hug. But, after a moment, she does neither. Instead, she whispers to him, “I think <em>I</em> would’ve punched you if he hadn’t.”</p><p>“You can still punch me,” he replies, laughing softly. “I’ve taken worst.”</p><p>There is a flicker of sadness in her eyes at his words and then, she is burying her face into his chest as he finally settles on pulling him into a tight hug. “I don’t doubt it,” she says quietly. And as he begins stroking her hair, she continues, “I’m trying to be angry at you but I think I’m just sad. Sad that we couldn’t meet in a better circumstance but we can figure this out together, can’t we?”</p><p>Jaskier pulls back from the hug and manages a small smile for her before he takes her hands into his. Ciri’s hands are rough with calluses but still softer than what he remembers of his own daughter. But he loves Ciri all the same, down to the unfamiliarities. He loves her like his own. And this time, he thinks he can grant more love than war. Grant her the warmth he has always dreamt of for Lucia.</p><p>“Of course we can figure this out, poppet,” he tells her.</p><p>“But you still have to leave,” she guesses before he has the chance to say anything more, a frown marring her face. “I don’t understand. I mean, if we can figure this out, then surely you don’t have to go.”</p><p>“I drew a target on my own back when I used my nature to help Geralt back in Novigrad. If I don’t leave now, Ciri, then I will only end up hurting you again.”</p><p>“Then, we’ll leave with you—”</p><p>“No, poppet, <em>listen</em>,” he rushes, tightening his grip on her hands until she focuses on nothing but his eyes and his voice. “This is something I <em>must</em> do on my own. And, well, I’ve troubled you enough, haven’t I?”</p><p>Jaskier glimpses distrust in her eyes seconds before she snaps, “Those who leave me never seem to return.” Then, much softer, she adds, “I don’t want to lose you too, Jaskier. I don’t think I can handle something like that again.”</p><p>And oh, how his heart shatters at her words.</p><p>He pulls Ciri into another hug, winding his arms around her smaller figure while she buries her face into the crook of his neck. He kisses the top of her head lightly and rubs her back soothingly when he feels tears falling onto his skin. Jaskier holds her close, then as close to his heart as he can manage.</p><p>“I love you. You know that, right?” he asks her gently. “It’ll take an entire army to tear me away from you.”</p><p>Even when he has never verbalized it. Has only ever shown her his love and perhaps that is no longer enough. For a short moment, he wonders if Lucia even knew he loved her, from her greatness and down to her flaws. That Jaskier loved her then and he loves her still.</p><p>He has not once told her, has only ever shown. And that is, he thinks—no, he <em>knows</em>, is one of his mistakes.</p><p>“I do,” she whispers and his heart settles, even for only a second. Then, Ciri pulls away from him, lips downturned as she stares almost pleadingly. “Promise me you’ll come back.”</p><p>“With all my heart,” he says in return because Geralt is right. He knows the way back and all he has to do is walk the path no matter how beaten or bruised he may be when the time comes. Jaskier pulls his lute out of its case afterwards and settles it in his lap, fingers brushing lightly against the fine wood. What a wondrous companion it is, he muses. “Keep the lute safe for me, will you?” he asks softly and thinks, if he does not come back, then it is something for her to remember him by.</p><p>“Fine,” she replies, features hardening a fraction as her eyes dart from the instrument to his face and back again. “But you better hurry back or I’ll start breaking it into pieces for the next campfire,” she threatens with a sniffle and he grins in return. But Ciri shakes her head immediately when he tries to pass it into her hands. “Will you sing for me before you leave?” she asks tentatively.</p><p>“Of course,” he replies and settles his lute back in his lap while she rearranges herself in the bed until she is laying back comfortably with a rueful smile stuck to her face and warmth in those beautiful eyes. “What do you want to hear, poppet?”</p><p>“Have you written anything for her?” she asks. “For Lucia, I mean.”</p><p>“A few short ones,” Jaskier admits. And that is not all that Lucia is worth to him but all that he could write without losing himself. Without losing his sanity.</p><p>“Will you sing one for me?”</p><p>He hesitates for a second before swallowing. “Of course,” he whispers.</p><p>Jaskier has never truly sang them. Only once for his own ears before he scrambled, almost frantically, to hide every piece of it away. But now he braves himself and wills the tremble out of his own voice as he begins plucking the strings of his lute to the tune of the one that reminds him of her the most.</p><p>“<em>Engkau yang bernama bulanku</em>.”</p><p>And Jaskier sings it gently and full of hesitance as if this is his first time performing—and, well, in a way, it is. The first time he performs in his mother tongue. The language of the gods. He sings of how he was powerless in the face of Destiny—the Fates, whichever one prefers to call them. He sings of how the sky as well as the earth wept with him when she left them. And he sings of how in each and every single one of his prayers, he never forgets to utter her name.</p><p>“<em>Dan aku nangis</em>,” his fingers still on the strings as his voice cracks. Jaskier breathes out a shaky breath and only manages to whisper the last line with no melodies to accompany it, “<em>Hilangnya cinta sejati</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier does not quite know where to begin with his grand plan of confronting mother. Though he is aware that mortals often have sacred rituals for calling upon deities just as they have for calling upon spirits, he has never been privy to the procedures because, well, the god of war and wrath is neither a deity one willingly seeks out nor prays to. So Jaskier has never bothered himself with the details much like the rest of his family.</p><p>“Brilliant,” he mutters to himself because perhaps he should have.</p><p>And for a long moment, he spends his time staring up at the sky and wondering why mother has yet to terrorize him with their duties as gods, as powerful beings born to rule the cosmos. Then, he wonders how he is supposed to call upon the goddess of the heavens far up in the sky—the All Powerful, when his knees wobble with apprehension at the mere thought of it. Not to mention that Jaskier can barely stand upright due to the exhaustion still coursing through his veins.</p><p>But he has to end this <em>now</em>.</p><p>Jaskier has been running. For years, such <em>long</em> years, he has done nothing but flee. From mother. From who he is and what he is capable of. From this heavy guilt that sticks itself to him like an overgrown parasite.</p><p>Perhaps the time has come—and he hates to even think of it—for him to finally move forward. Time for him to accept reality as it is.</p><p><em>Who</em> he is.</p><p><em>What</em> he is.</p><p>And the things he has done to the world. And to his very own.</p><p>But has it been long enough? Jaskier wonders.</p><p>To mourn and to repent.</p><p>And then, the thought comes to him in the oppressive silence of the forest. In this suffocating darkness of the night, it comes to him and it whispers into his ears. <em>Does he deserve it?</em></p><p>To love when all he has ever done is destroy.</p><p>“It is not always black and white, wild one.”</p><p>The voice is familiar and the warmth that comes with it surrounds him much like an embrace from an old friend. Still, Jaskier startles where he stands and immediately whirls on his heels to face the newcomer with a glare while his heart bangs loudly against his ribcage.</p><p>“Stop doing that,” he hisses before huffing out an exasperated breath as he places one palm flat against his chest, trying his best to calm his racing heart.</p><p>“What, read your mind?” Love asks with incredulity in her voice and she raises a brow at him as she steps closer. Her eyes linger on his bruised cheek and bandaged hand for a second too long but she comments nothing on it as she waits for an answer.</p><p>“Not <em>that</em>,” he says because mind reading has never been a violation to either of them. Not when they grew up as gods. Jaskier waves his hands around and clarifies, “The popping out of thin air thing.”</p><p>“Oh,” she pauses for a moment and then, laughs heartily at his words. “I must admit, never thought the day that something scares you would come.”</p><p>“A lot of things scare me now,” he murmurs in return. To lose, to love and to hurt. Seems as if <em>everything</em> is beginning to scare him. But he changes the subject before Love has the chance to question him about it. With eyes trained to the stars, he quickly asks, “What’s not always black and white, sister?”</p><p>She sighs, recognizing the deflection but decides to not comment on it as she shakes her head at him. Then, she comes to stand next to him and replies, “You and I, we are complicated beings. My intentions are not always pure and neither are yours always tainted. You seem to think that we are opposites of one another. That you are inherently bad and that I am inherently good but you forget, wild one, that we shared the same womb. The ideas you have are yours as much as they are mine. No matter how horrid they may be.”</p><p>He hums, understanding but not quite convinced. “We’re just like mortals then, are we not?” Jaskier mumbles as he stares off into the distance. But the question is more for himself than for the both of them. Then, to Love, he asks, “Does that mean I can have what I’ve longed for, then?”</p><p>“To love and to rage as equally as the mortals have?” she asks in return. “To choose your own path, you mean?”</p><p>“Yes,” he whispers, almost afraid of what her answer will be.</p><p>A brief pause envelopes the both of them for a brief second before Love finally replies quietly and simply, “We are <em>gods</em>.”</p><p>And he thinks, somehow those words adequate. There is no such thing as choosing their own paths. Not when they are who they are. Not even when they are more alike to the mortals than they will ever admit.</p><p>“What will you do, sister, if I leave heavens forever?” he tries.</p><p>“Wild one,” she sighs and when he glances to where she stands, he glimpses a frown on her face. “I have told you, you will not bring Lucia back by pretending to be one with these mortals. She will not come back, not unless you drag her from the depths of the underworld—”</p><p>“No,” he interjects softly. “I don’t believe that’s what she would want.”</p><p>“Then, what is it that is making you wish to leave?”</p><p>Jaskier smiles and glances down at his hands, noting the small fading scars from his long journeys with a certain wolf and princess. Even the stab wound Yennefer gave him provokes an almost fond smile out of him. “Perhaps I’d like to build a family again,” he admits. “And this time, I’d like to build it properly.”</p><p>When he turns to look at his sister, there is no glee in her eyes. He sees only pity in them. And her voice cracks slightly when she tells him, “We do not have such luxury, wild one. We are <em>not</em> mortals. Ichor runs in our veins, the blood of rulers. What we have now is all we will ever receive.”</p><p>“No,” he snaps. “I’ll talk to mother and perhaps she will—”</p><p>Love scoffs, cutting him off. “There will be no talking with her. She will strike you down as soon as she finds you.”</p><p>“Then, where is she now?” he asks her angrily. “Strike me down, then, I’ll fucking fight back.”</p><p>“She sensed you the moment you suffused with your own nature in that tunnel but I threw her off with my own. She’ll come,” Love tells him simply, unaffected by his anger and then, for a second, she seems to hold as much fear in her as he does. “Soon.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs out a tired breath after a pause and nods. “Thank you,” he tells her gently because although he wants this to end, Jaskier knows that he is in no state to confront <em>mother</em>, of all deities. He has to wait. At least, for a little longer. Then, the air all around them tenses immediately when the snapping of twigs echo throughout the forest. He stills and whispers, “Bit too soon, don’t you think?”</p><p>“That is <em>not</em> mother,” she tells him, sounding insulted. “I am a lot more powerful than you think and I shrouded the entire country with my nature, she <em>cannot</em> have found you this quickly. Besides, we both know mother loves a dramatic entrance and this is far from it.”</p><p>“Hate it when you do that,” he groans quietly as he slips his dagger out of his boot. “Last time you shroud an entire village, they got unbearably sappy after it rained.”</p><p>“Well,” she laughs as her weapon materializes—the body of a silver snake, only a few inches long to form the handle of a whip with the mouth of the beast agape for its black leather tongue to coil around Love’s arm. “Beggars cannot be choosers,” she tuts.</p><p>“Wait,” he whispers as soon as he feels a gentle tug at his core and registers the way his nature hums in one particular direction of the forest. He turns to it, head canted to the side as he waits and waits until he can make out the outlines of figures approaching them slowly.</p><p>Next to him, Love hums delightedly as the figures draw closer. “Ah,” she exclaims in the same moment Jaskier recognizes the double swords strapped to broad back and an unforgiving pair of sharp violet eyes. Her whip dissolves into thin air and she says, “There is so much love in that white-haired one of yours.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>here are some translations for those who don't speak bahasa:</p><p><i>Engkau yang bernama bulanku</i> — You, the one called my moon.<br/><i>Dan aku nangis, hilangnya cinta sejati</i> — And i cry, at the loss of true love.</p><p>the song is called Bulanku by SOG and it started this entire fic. so i'm genuinely happy that i managed to slip it in.</p><p>as always, much love for the support ! and your thoughts are most definitely welcome x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. And our particles, they're burning up because they yearn for each other</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The goddess of love does not look much like the image Geralt would have created of her in the privacy of his own mind. She carries herself gracefully despite her sharp edges and she drapes herself in beautiful silks much like her sibling but unlike him, she allows them to be crumpled under the gold-painted leather armour tied tightly around her figure. Her steps are bold and there are intricate lines painted around her deep ruby red eyes, one that resembles the mark of warriors of old. And not to mention, her height—shorter than Cyclops but definitely taller than all of mortals.</p><p>If he has to commit to honesty, he would say that the goddess of love seems deeply intertwined with the notions of war than the god of war, himself.</p><p>Jaskier is delicate and tender in his touches as well as his words while Love is undeniably grating where he is not—or more accurately, Geralt thinks, where Jaskier refuses to be.</p><p>And in the thick darkness of the late night as they gather in the clearing of the forest, with Love leaning against a nearby tree, a smirk carved onto her face. With Yennefer standing stiffly next to him, arms crossed over her chest and impatience in her eyes. And with Jaskier sitting silently across from him, the campfire between them, Geralt observes this new band that has come together.</p><p>Two deities, a witcher and a sorceress.</p><p>Against the one who rules all of heavens, it seems.</p><p>He sighs and tosses another tree branch into the fire. “We need a plan,” he speaks up, deciding that they have had enough of the silence.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be here,” Jaskier says in return with bright blue eyes glaring daggers at both, Yennefer and himself.</p><p>“Don’t kid yourself,” Yennefer scoffs from where she stands and though Geralt has all of his attention pinned on the other, he knows with absolute certainty that she is rolling her eyes at Jaskier. “You need all the help you can get on this one."</p><p>“And your idea of helping is to notch the body counts up, it seems. <em>This</em> is one enemy neither of you can help with, you realize that, yes? It is simply out of your boundaries,” Love says with obvious deprecation laced in her words before she turns to her sibling without waiting for a reply. And softer, she tells him, “You have initiated countless battles, wild one but perhaps this is not one that you should.”</p><p>“And so?” Jaskier whispers in return, his eyes focused on the earth and his shoulder slumped, visibly defeated. Then, testily, he adds, “I stay as I am? I keep running? Or do you suggest that I run back to her and beg for her forgiveness, for something I don’t want?”</p><p>Love clenches her jaw at his words before she sighs and steps toward Jaskier to crouch next to where he sits, until they are eye level. Bright blue staring into deep red. “No,” she whispers to him as she takes his hands into hers. Then, Love squeezes her eyes shut, her body tensing and she seems indecisive for a short moment before she continues softly, “This is far from conventional. I do not like it but you are a part of me, wild one and so I will help you. But only as far as calling upon her through restoring you to your former physique. Nothing more and nothing less,” she pauses and Jaskier stares at her unblinkingly. “Mother will not easily forgive you for neglecting your duties and I cannot promise that you will come out of this alive.” Her eyes turn to Geralt and Yennefer, and she adds, “That <em>any</em> of you will come out of this alive.”</p><p>“You won’t help fight her?” Yennefer asks, brows raised.</p><p>“Her rage is far greater than anything a mortal like you can ever comprehend,” Love answers, narrowing her eyes. “I simply do not wish to be at the receiving end of it.”</p><p>“Just like that?” Geralt frowns. <em>But he is your sibling</em>, he wants to say. <em>Your </em>blood<em>. It takes so little to abandon him?</em></p><p>“It’s alright,” Jaskier says quickly before an argument has the chance to take place. “I suppose I’ll just have to rage a little harder then,” he tells Love, shooting her a small smile as he squeezes her hands.</p><p>And Geralt, with neither blue nor red observing him, shudders at the mere thought of a wrath far greater than the one the other has inflicted upon the Continent.</p><p>Next to him, Yennefer snorts and rolls her eyes. “Well, we better start thinking of a plan that doesn’t involve any of us dying then, wild one.”</p><p> </p><p>At the end of it all, there is simply not much for them to go with. Love quarrels with only those she knows she can wreck, be it mortals or the opposite, and unfortunately, her mother is not one she dares to even poke. Yennefer, on the other hand, has angered countless of deities just for having more balls than any man in the last century but these deities are the ones whose lives depend on the number of villagers visiting their temples every hour of the day. Then, there is Jaskier but at this point, everyone knows that he dwells with mortals more than his own kind, be it by fighting alongside them or entirely against them. An obvious dead end to that. And Geralt, well, his own time of provoking powerful beings came to an end as soon as he stopped avoiding his responsibilities as a father.</p><p>Thus, the plan they come up with and have agreed on, Geralt has to admit, is not much of a plan. Jaskier will simply expose himself through a ritual set in motion by Love when the time comes for them to draw the All Powerful in for a conversation that will undoubtedly be, in no way, civilized.</p><p>“How sure are we that she won’t just immediately kill him?” Yennefer asks, abruptly halting their discussion. “If she’s the All Powerful, then I don’t suppose she’ll need any more than a flick of her wrist to kill her own child.”</p><p>“Because I’m her favourite child,” Jaskier answers simply as if <em>that</em> explains <em>everything</em>.</p><p>Yennefer’s face pinches into an obvious look of disgust and she says, “But you’re <em>War</em>. You cause nothing but trouble.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Love replies this time while Jaskier seems as if he is not certain whether to be offended or accepting of the statement. “And with war comes immortality for most of us. You, mortals tend to crawl back to us when you’re at the end of your ropes.”</p><p>“You, <em>immortals</em>,” Yennefer spits. “Are vile fucking creatures.”</p><p>“And yet here you are, helping us,” Love says sweetly, further riling Yennefer up.</p><p>“I’m helping <em>him</em>,” Yennefer snarls in return and jabs one finger in Jaskier’s direction. “Because unlike the rest of your kind, <em>he</em> seems to be the only one with a heart. And isn’t that funny, <em>Love</em>,” she spits the name out as if it is the most unpleasant thing she has ever had to pronounce before Yennefer laughs, loud and disbelieving. “Because <em>he</em> seems to be the most unlikeliest to have it. And let’s not forget who’s pulling out first as soon as the fight starts, yes?”</p><p>Their discussion comes to an abrupt halt right after as Geralt lays a gentle hand on Yennefer’s shoulder while Jaskier stares angrily at his sister. For a long while, the air between them crackles with tension until Yennefer steps away from all of them with a huff, quietly muttering colourful words under her breath.</p><p>Geralt follows her steps and thinks that, for the lack of better word, they are <em>fucked</em>.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says earnestly the moment he sidles up next to where Geralt stands after a brief and hushed argument with his sister. “She’s—”</p><p>“An arse?” he offers immediately with his brows raised, challenging the other to say any different.</p><p>Jaskier laughs softly. “There’s no other way of putting it, I suppose.”</p><p>“I meant what I said,” Yennefer tells the other before Geralt can say anything else.</p><p>Jaskier smiles at her, to which Yennefer replies with a tight-lipped frown. Which is, Geralt supposes, as close to a smile as the other will ever receive from her under these circumstances. Then, when blue eyes take them in with indescribable amount of fondness in them, Geralt feels his heart thumps just a little faster and where Yennefer stands, he hears her scoff at the affection, sounding slightly embarrassed.</p><p>“I don’t think I’ll be able to thank you enough for it,” the other whispers. “All three of you,” and he stops, eyes widening as if only now realizing something important. “Hold on, you left Ciri on her own?”</p><p>“Don’t be daft,” Yennefer mutters, rolling her eyes. “We left her with Triss, a friend of mine. Not a lot’s going to happen to them in one night, I believe but you’re a different case altogether, wild one.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” the other says. And when both, Geralt and Yennefer only shoot him a questioning look, he adds in a whisper, “Lucia gave me the name and for the rest of my time, I’d like to be known by it.”</p><p>Her lips quirk into a smile but it vanishes as soon as Geralt notices it. And in a softer tone, she says, “Jaskier it is, then.”</p><p>“We heard what you said, you know,” Geralt admits to the other. “About building a family again. I know that us being here bothers you. You don’t want to hurt any more than you already have, I get it but—”</p><p>He halts his own words and the three of them fall into a deep silence because, well, embarrassingly enough, Geralt does not quite know where he is going with this. So he spends one minute too long to mull over his own feelings. And Geralt does not think that he will be standing here, in this moment, if it was purely out of Yennefer’s insistence to help. It was not because of the way Ciri stared at him either, with wide pleading eyes the moment Jaskier left the cottage.</p><p>It was, he realizes, his instincts to protect one of his own.</p><p>Jaskier is as much of family to him as Geralt and Ciri are to the other.</p><p>And he visibly startles at that, brows shooting up in surprise and eyes widening a fraction. Certainly, it is not entirely odd for him to consider anyone not bounded to him by blood a family but this? This feels a lot like being bounded to someone by destiny again. Though this time, Geralt is certain it is not the product of his own words.</p><p>Yennefer, undeniably privy to his line of thoughts, snorts where she stands.</p><p>Geralt clears his throat and almost squirms. He hesitates for a moment and then, says, “<em>This</em> is what families do, Jaskier. We look after one another.”</p><p>“Alright,” the other accepts with a reluctant nod. Then, “But if anything happens to me, I want the both of you to run the other way as fast as you can. Portal out of here—<em>whatever</em>, but promise me not to wait for me.”</p><p>“Ciri will have our arses for that,” Yennefer comments.</p><p>“If you don’t, then Ciri will have no one at all to be angry at.”</p><p>Her jaw clenches. “Fine,” she huffs.</p><p>“Good,” Jaskier sighs, clearly relieved when Geralt nods in agreement too. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to my sister.”</p><p>And then, once the other is far enough away from the both of them, Yennefer whispers, “Does he realize that this might come down to killing his own mother?”</p><p>“He’s the god of war, Yen,” Geralt replies just as quietly, eyes pinned on the other as Jaskier begins another discussion with Love. “I’m sure he came to that conclusion long before we did.”</p><p>“I hope you’re right about that,” she replies. <em>Or we might all end up dead by first light</em>, goes unsaid between them. Then, completely unrelated, she adds with a soft laugh, “You’re incredibly obtuse at time, do you know that?”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p> </p><p>In theory, it should proceed as such—while Love restores Jaskier back to his original form, Yennefer will protect the both of them from any immediate danger. As for Geralt, he will be in the trees, out of sight and during the fight that will certainly come, he will scan for an opening to take the All Powerful by surprise if need be. If things get out of hand which everyone is certain, it will.</p><p>And as far as plans go, this is one of the worst he has ever had to execute. But admittedly, there is not much a sorceress and a witcher can do about a quarrel between a godly mother and her godly child.</p><p>“We will begin the ritual now,” Love informs them stiffly as Jaskier takes the last bite into the fruit he found after scavenging the forest floor for anything to fill his stomach. “Remember your place,” she calls to them and Geralt steps toward one tree that is far enough away from the rest of them for none to spot him immediately but also close enough for him to listen in on any shared words.</p><p>Geralt has never been one to stay long in any village or city to witness a proper ritual of calling upon the gods—or in their case, of restoring one. So the process he observes from afar devours his attention almost entirely as he watches Jaskier settles on the ground with his legs folded under him. Love settles in a similar position right in front her sibling, her hands cupping Jaskier’s head almost painfully tight.</p><p>Then, she begins to softly chant verses in a language Geralt does not understand and the nail of her thumb digs into the skin of Jaskier’s forehead as she carves a symbol into it, drawing copious amount of ichor. And even from afar, Geralt hears the pained grunts leaving Jaskier but Love neither hesitates nor halts her action.</p><p>As the chanting grows louder and the ritual gets more intense, he takes notice of the barrier flickering between the sibling and the rest of the world. And not a moment later, it solidifies, encasing Yennefer and the two deities in a protective globe.</p><p>Geralt’s attention returns to the siblings the moment he hears a heavy groan and he watches as Love drags the pad of her thumb down from the centre of Jaskier’s forehead to his chin, staining pale skin with gold blood. And Geralt realizes that Love managed to carve a peculiar ‘<em>P</em>’ into Jaskier’s skin—one that has more crooks than the letter should have. And the symbol shines brighter, the louder Love chants until the brightness becomes unbearable for Geralt to continue watching the process any longer and so he turns his head away.</p><p>And that is when the screaming begins.</p><p>The moment the distinct scent of burning flesh permeates the air, Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, stomach twisting at the sound of true agony coming from the other. He clenches his fists when Jaskier’s voice finally cracks and he hears nothing more than pitiful croaks.</p><p>And suddenly, there is nothing but silence.</p><p>“How much longer?” he hears Yennefer asks.</p><p>“No, no,” Love says shakily, completely disregarding the question. “He is supposed to—this is—he is <em>not</em> supposed to be like this! I did everything right!”</p><p>“Alright!” Yennefer shouts and even from afar, he can hear how distraught she is. “Calm <em>down</em>.”</p><p>Geralt tenses.</p><p>“Stop panicking, it won’t help—”</p><p>He blinks his eyes open right as a bolt of crackling light strikes Yennefer’s barrier and his eardrums pop at the loud <em>boom</em> the collision produces. All around, the trees sway, including the one he hides in and Geralt grapples frantically for the trunk to stabilize himself. Smokes fill his vision and he can neither see nor hear anything aside from the loud ringing in his ears. But he remains in the tree, thinking shakily as sudden fear threatens to swallow his heart entirely, <em>she is here.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always, i welcome each and every single one of your dear thoughts ! and much love for the support x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. What would your mother say, your faith that you ignored</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we are two (more or less) chapters away from the end ! i can't stress enough how fun it's been writing this and reading your thoughts on it. thank you very much for the pleasure ! you have all my love x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier comes back to himself with a painful jolt, gasping for a lungful of air only to suck in thick smoke. He finds himself sprawled on the forest floor with his vision partially blurred. Though if it is from the smoke or otherwise, he does not know. And his ears ring painfully with voices too loud for him to comprehend.</p><p>He feels disoriented.</p><p>Jaskier groans as he tries to get his feet under him, registering the ache in his muscles all at once. But he does not feel as bad as he did mere moments ago—when the bruise on his cheek throbs ceaselessly. When his limbs feel more like rushing river than solid bones.</p><p>This is him.</p><p>One with his nature.</p><p>No longer running.</p><p>No longer rejecting.</p><p>But no, no. There is something wrong.</p><p>The ringing in his ears will not stop. The blur in his vision does not flee even after the smoke surrounding him clears. And his body, it does not feel entirely his.</p><p>Only then does he realize that he has only been partially restored to his original form. Where he stands now, Jaskier is neither a mortal nor a deity, with one of his eyes following the limitations of mortals, his ears overloaded with noises even as discreet as skittering bugs and his body becoming a mixed bag of god and human.</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing shakily until there are hands tugging at him roughly, pulling him up. And with it comes a voice, harsh as the hands on him. Jaskier squeezes his eyes tighter as the hands begin to shake him, back and forth. And he focuses. And focuses until he manages to single out that voice—harsh yet familiar, shouting at him, “Get yourself together, Jaskier! There’s no fucking time. We need you. <em>We need you</em>!”</p><p>“Yennefer,” he breathes out, eyes sliding open to meet desperate violet ones.</p><p>Strong hands cup his face and she brings him closer toward her. “She’s here and you’re not dead,” she whispers to him, nostrils flaring and eyes burning with anticipation. “So go charm her and get us out of this mess.”</p><p>He collects himself enough to be able to stand on his own without wobbling and turns to Love, standing next to Yennefer with a frown on her face and already stepping away from everything.</p><p>“Good luck, wild one,” is all she says before disappearing completely.</p><p>Jaskier pulls back from Yennefer’s grip, breathing in deep as he holds one palm out for the weapon marked for war and witnesses it as it materializes in his hand—an axe. A simple weapon but wield it correctly and it will grant you the strength of countless gods. And he smiles at the sight of it, recognizing the runes carved into the head of the axe and down to its knob. It has been too long since Jaskier last wielded the weapon and this time—for better or for worst, it may be his last.</p><p>He takes one step away from Yennefer and toward where he knows mother stands tall, the magnitude of her nature almost suffocating him as he ventures closer. His grip around his axe tightens when his eyes finally fall on her—grey eyes cold enough to freeze over the sea and a smile as harsh as a blizzard.</p><p>“Mother,” Jaskier greets stiffly.</p><p>“You greet your mother with a weapon in hand?” she hums disapprovingly as she towers menacingly over him with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes flick to his axe before they settle on him once more. “Have I not taught you better than this, my wrath?”</p><p>“You’ve only ever taught me to rage,” he replies quietly but as boldly as he can manage before he takes another step toward her, fingers never loosening around his axe. It hums in his grip as loudly as his nature does—set for a fight as both always are.</p><p>“And I suppose, this is you, raging?”</p><p>“No,” he says, gentler this time. Then, repeats the word as he shakes his head. “This is me, asking for you to leave me be. I no longer want to walk the path that you chose for me.”</p><p>“And if I say no?”</p><p>“Mother, I have found my home. And I don’t want to lose it. Not again,” he almost pleads with her. “Just let me go home.”</p><p>“I have always found your insolence endearing but now,” she pauses, her eyes narrowing. “It grates on my nerves a little more than I welcome, my wrath. You think your home is with a mutant mercenary and some runaway princess? No, not when ichor runs in you.” Then, she scoffs. “Should have known letting you mingle with that dead one of yours will only bring me problems.”</p><p>“Her name was Lucia,” he spits with a sharp glare.</p><p>“Oh, you do not scare me, my wrath,” she coos as she takes a step toward him. Then, another. And another until there is scarcely any space between them. The tension is palpable as mother pauses for a short moment before she settles a finger on his cheek, tracing patterns against his skin—his symbol, he realizes. A crooked ‘<em>P</em>’. The symbol of his axe.</p><p>“I don’t scare you because you don’t think I’ll ever direct my rage on you,” Jaskier hisses through gritted teeth in return.</p><p>He thinks of Yennefer, putting her life on the line because she sees something in him that is worth salvaging. He thinks of Geralt, remaining by his side even after learning of the blood staining his hands. He thinks of Ciri, waiting for the three of them to come back to her.</p><p>And he thinks of Lucia, the child bound to him by more than blood. The child of War. With hair the colour of the blaze in her soul and eyes as bright as the cornflowers she used to pick. The one who taught him love far better than the deity herself can. The one who called him, with her sweet voice, “Jaskier! Jaskier!” wherever they went.</p><p>He spins his axe around until its head is directed toward the both of them. He is the god of war, he thinks. For where he lacks in strength, he makes up for in swiftness. And Jaskier brings down the cutting edge of his axe down on the arm extended toward him, slicing through bones easily.</p><p>Ichor splatters his face as mother screams. More out of surprise, he guesses, than anything else. She stumbles away from him, eyes darting from his axe, stained gold, to her arm, severed just below her elbow. For a long while, she is quiet. And then, she begins to shake.</p><p>And where he stands, Jaskier grins, baring his teeth at her.</p><p>“I’ve always wanted to do that.”</p><p>In this moment, he is War. He is no longer a traveling bard, putting on performances for the nobles as well as the peasants. He may be Love’s wild one, cherished by her until matters turn a little too rough. He may be the All Powerful’s little wrath, her favourite only because of the bad he brings. But he is also Lucia’s Jaskier. The only name that truly matters.</p><p>He is War and he will rage.</p><p>He is War and he will love as he should not.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i wrote <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26444224">a sad piece for these same two idiots</a> a few weeks back and forgot to (coughs) hold all of you at knifepoint until you read it (coughs). do give it a chance if you'd like !</p><p>and as always, much love for all the support x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Don't want no other shade of blue but you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Children, Geralt thinks, are simply wonderful for having the power to change a soul so profoundly. And the fact that most do not realize that they harness such a gift surprises him, to say the least. Children have the power to change how you think, how you carry yourself and given enough time, even your way of life.</p><p>Before Ciri, he barely blinked at the thought of sleeping in the wilderness or simply lurking around in the dark of the night—where all kinds of dangers thrive. Before Ciri, he dove head first into almost <em>everything</em>, may it be a fight with a kikimore or throwing insults in the face of those who can ruin his life with the snap of fingers.</p><p>But things have changed—or more specifically, <em>Ciri</em> has changed him.</p><p>How he thinks. How he carries himself. His way of life.</p><p>Now, Geralt thinks twice of even camping near a cluster of poisonous mushrooms whenever his daughter insists on accompanying him on the Path. He thinks twice of even cheating a peasant, afraid that it might bring her ill fate.</p><p>And, well, he supposes he should not be surprised that another child has managed to change a <em>god</em>. Geralt is well aware of their charms after all and yet, here he is, astounded still by everything that has come to pass.</p><p>He was not born into war and by the time he learnt of what war is, he was old enough to stay far enough away from its epicentre. But that does not mean Geralt does not know the darkness that comes with war—the starvation, the grief, the desolation and the fear. He has seen enough of it plaguing the common folk to know that war bears only short-lived victories and eternal despair.</p><p>And a <em>mortal child</em> managed to turn that around.</p><p>So he supposes, after one more moment of serious pondering that his surprise does not entirely <em>not</em> make sense. And what a day it must have been, he thinks, when the child showed this powerful being that knows nothing more than rage and blood, her careful love.</p><p>The forest seems to hold its breath the moment Jaskier makes his first move, severing the All Powerful’s arm faster than a blink and Geralt’s line of thoughts come to an immediate halt. He inhales a sharp breath as ichor splatters the other’s face while the severed arm thumps mutedly to the earth.</p><p>“Holy fuck,” Geralt whispers to himself, heavy breaths rattling his lungs.</p><p>He has never seen Jaskier wield anything more dangerous than a simple dagger purchased from the market of a no name village but even then, it was in the deep darkness of a tunnel. When Geralt’s vision is no better than if someone were to cover his eyes entirely.</p><p>And Geralt has gotten the fact that Jaskier—someone he knows, someone Ciri cherishes and someone they travel with—is a war god, through his head but he thinks, he has never actually realized what it <em>means</em> to have a war god by their sides, aside from having to face the pile of tragedies the other lugs along.</p><p>At least not until now, in this moment, when Jaskier is wielding an axe with a feral grin carved across that face.</p><p>And Geralt finally understands that this simply means Jaskier has always been able to squash the rest of them with his thumb if he so wishes, as if they are nothing more than ants passing by.</p><p>It is a sobering discovery, he must admit.</p><p>And Lucia managed to change <em>this</em>, he muses. Oh, children.</p><p>“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he hears the other says and there is glee laced in Jaskier’s words that he hesitates to identify for a short moment.</p><p>And then the All Powerful lunges forward with a snarl. He hears Yennefer yelps in surprise before a portal opens up between the mother and her child. As soon as the All Powerful disappears into it, Yennefer yells out for Jaskier and the other whirls around fast enough in time to face the second portal just as it begins to open up a good distance away from the both of them.</p><p>Jaskier throws his axe at the opening with all his might, grunting as he does so right as the All Powerful steps out, seeming slightly disoriented. And she staggers as the axe embeds itself into her shoulder.</p><p>“Is it a fight that you so desperately wish for, my wrath?” the All Powerful calls angrily to the other as she curls her fingers around the handle of the axe. But before she can properly grab it, Geralt catches Jaskier spreading one palm open and the weapon immediately detaches itself from her shoulder to return to the other.</p><p>“We don’t <em>have to</em> fight,” Jaskier tells his mother but this time, the anger remains in his voice and curls around each word. He is no longer pleading. “All you have to do is just leave me be.”</p><p>“You are only a fraction of what I am,” the All Powerful coos in reply. “You should be <em>quaking</em> at the mere thought of fighting me.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs where he stands as if the conversation genuinely tires him. “I’ve long passed that point, mother. There are far worst things to fear than your stupid anger.”</p><p>The All Powerful clicks her tongue at that. “I will simply have to remind you of it, then.”</p><p>She brings her hand down to the earth and as soon as skin touches soil, she expels a force strong enough to swipe both, Yennefer and Jaskier off their feet. The trees sway, the birds flutter frantically away but Geralt remains where he hides between the leaves and levels his crossbow the moment he sees the All Powerful strides toward Jaskier. Geralt aims it straight at her neck, breathes in deep, steadies his hands and he takes the shot.</p><p>He supposes deities must be much like mortals—made of penetrable skin and meat, and delicate bones with only slight differences since both seem almost alike. It does not occur to Geralt that the case may actually be quite the opposite. That Jaskier managed to maim his mother because the metal of his axe is unlike any other and not simply because Jaskier has perfect aim. <em>This</em> does not occur to Geralt until he watches the arrow hits its mark with a loud <em>plink</em> before it clatters to the ground, not even managing to scar the All Powerful.</p><p>Geralt blinks in shock and curses under his breath as she begins to laugh.</p><p>“You failed to tell me that you brought <em>all</em> of them with you, my wrath. Oh, your little <em>family</em>—no, hold on,” she pauses and concentrates as she scents the air. Her smile falters. “You did not bring the little princess. Why is that?” she steps closer toward Jaskier and quieter, mockingly, she asks, “Afraid to lose another one?”</p><p>Almost as soon as the words slip through her lips, Jaskier lunges for her and curls his fingers around her throat as the both of them topple down from the force of the other’s weight alone. For a short moment, Geralt sees nothing but a blur of movements until Jaskier is flung away from the All Powerful, his back slamming into a nearby tree, hard enough for Geralt to hear the trunk crack. And Jaskier falls back to the earth with a muffled groan.</p><p>Yennefer scrambles for the other immediately when the night sky flashes a blinding white before lightning streaks down toward where Jaskier lays, curled in on himself. She shouts a string of words—a protective spell, Geralt realizes when a purple barrier shimmers into existence. It flickers too much for it to be stable enough to bear the brunt of <em>anything</em>, he thinks.</p><p>And then, the lightning hits.</p><p>And this time, the impact is strong enough to fling Geralt down to the earth while the trees all around him groan loudly as they bend at the sheer amount of force being exerted upon them until their leaves manage to brush the dirt.</p><p>Bowing away from the one they know they should fear.</p><p>There is a stabbing pain in his ears for the second time tonight but one that is more painful than the last and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, breathes harshly through his nose for a second too long before Geralt is able to collect himself entirely. And when he finally opens his eyes, his vision is filled with bright and blinding spots as he staggers back onto his feet. There are as much dusts in the air as there are smokes and Geralt does not know in which direction he pushes himself but he hopes desperately to anyone that is listening, that it is toward his friends. His family.</p><p>The All Powerful does not seem to be actively seeking to hurt either him or Yennefer. Only Jaskier, he realizes. The matter remains to be a family quarrel, it seems. And so, desperately, he calls out, “Yennefer!”</p><p>“Geralt…” a voice croaks in return, barely loud enough for him to catch but he does. Thankfully, he does. <em>Jaskier</em>, his mind supplies, staggering toward the voice as it calls for him once more.</p><p>“Yen,” Geralt breathes out when his eyes finally find her, slumped against Jaskier, completely unconscious. Then, his eyes drift to the other and this close, he sees how the ritual has changed Jaskier. From afar, Jaskier seemed normal—the height of a mortal and the built of one too but up close, he realizes that the other is a confusing mixture of who he is and who he wishes to be.</p><p>One of Jaskier’s eyes consists of splashes of pitch black, cornflower blue and teal while his other remains purely the same shade of blue. He is certainly taller than he was before but only by a couple of inches, not enough to tower over Geralt. And the sleeves of his chemise, Geralt realizes with a start, are pulled taut over refined muscles where they were previously filled with too thin arms and air.</p><p>Geralt blinks and fights the urge to step away. It feels <em>unnatural</em>.</p><p>“You have to go,” Jaskier tells him breathlessly, snapping him out of his line of thoughts and Geralt returns his eyes to those mismatched ones. “Take her and go, Geralt. <em>Now</em>.”</p><p>He frowns as he kneels next to where Yennefer lays and presses two fingers against the pulse point on her neck. “She probably over-exerted herself. I’m sure she’s fine,” he tells the other. “But I’ll take her from here to somewhere safe and then I’ll come—”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Jaskier interjects harshly, gritting the word out. He shakes his head at Geralt, eyes pleading. “Go and stay with her.”</p><p>“And leave you to fight <em>her</em>? That’s not someone you fight on your own, Jaskier,” he hisses.</p><p>“And you think <em>you</em> will be of any help to me?” Geralt clenches his jaw. “The only one who could’ve offered me proper help, left us, Geralt. I appreciate your concerns and your tries, I really do but I think we both know that it’s not enough. Not against <em>her</em>. So go home to your daughter. Attend to your friend.”</p><p>He glares at the other but says nothing in return because there is nothing for him to say to the truth that comes spilling out of Jaskier. And when the silence has dragged on for far too long, Jaskier softens before laying a gentle hand on Geralt’s cheek, cupping his face and bringing him closer.</p><p>“You promised me, darling,” Jaskier whispers, does not hesitate to call Geralt for what he truly is in the other’s heart. “Go and I’ll find my way back as <em>I</em> have promised you.”</p><p>His hands drift up, fingers curling around brown locks and Geralt pulls Jaskier to him in one swift motion and plants a brief kiss on the other’s forehead. And he retracts just as quickly, afraid that he might not ever let go if he holds on for another second longer. “Come back to us,” he whispers back.</p><p>And then, he thinks, what Jaskier is be damned.</p><p>If Geralt is to love someone, he will love them without conditional acceptance. Much like he loves Ciri. Much like he loves Yennefer.</p><p>And so he admits it aloud, “Come back to <em>me</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Geralt runs for what feels like hours with Yennefer’s limp form cradled close to him. And they make it far enough away, he thinks but still in a place where “<em>far</em>” remains at a distance where he can still hear the thundering sounds of Jaskier going up against the All Powerful. So he hesitates to stop even for a moment to breath, at least until he feels a gentle tug on his armour and Geralt hears a soft groan coming from the body in his arms.</p><p>He quickly settles Yennefer against a nearby tree, careful not to jostle her too much before he moves to brush dark strands away from her face. And he waits, for one painstaking minute, for Yennefer to blink back into full consciousness.</p><p>“Hey,” he calls to her, one hand gently tapping her cheek as those familiar eyes, glazed with clear confusion, quietly take him in.</p><p>“Wur’ppened?”</p><p>“You passed out after the second lightning. Jaskier’s fine,” Geralt pauses and frowns. “<em>Hopefully</em> but you’re certainly not. I need to take you back.”</p><p>“Vu le’im?”</p><p>His frown deepens. “What?”</p><p>She clears her throat and with his help, tries to sit up straighter. “You left him?” she croaks, wincing as she does so.</p><p>“Yen, there’s nothing more we can do for him,” he says through gritted teeth and even now, after reminding himself of the fact countless times, it still upsets him more than he can properly convey. He is a witcher, Geralt thinks bitterly. He is supposed to be able to help in <em>some</em> way because is that exactly not what he was trained for? To help when none other has the strength to. “The All Powerful has a lot more than the both of us combined,” he says and does not know if the words are for himself or for her.</p><p>Yennefer purses her lips and says nothing in return because out of the two of them, she has always been the one to see sense.</p><p>“We have to get back to Ciri,” she mutters once the silence grows too heavy for them to prolong.</p><p>He nods. Then, “Do you need some more time to rest?”</p><p>“Best we get back to her as fast as our feet can carry us,” she tells him instead and Geralt nods once more before he pulls her up onto her feet as carefully as he can manage. He raises his brows in a silent question when her eyes widen as she stares straight ahead at something behind him. Geralt is about to ask her aloud when she suddenly circles her arm around him and forces him to the ground, shouting, “Quen, Geralt! <em>Now</em>!”</p><p>The earth trembles under their feet and too late does he register her words. He hears a loud <em>boom</em> before a blast of air hits them with so much force that they get dragged along by the current for a good distance, feet slipping every time they try to find purchase.</p><p>And it comes as quickly as it goes and the both of them are left curled around one another for protection with their hearts thudding frantically against their chests, their breaths coming out as heavy as the fear leaking out of them. Then, Geralt stands abruptly, wide eyes immediately darting in the direction of the blast—the same direction as the clearing where they left Jaskier.</p><p>“It’s too fucking quiet,” Yennefer whispers to him from behind as if afraid that another blast will come for them if she speaks any louder.</p><p>He whirls around to face her, worry feasting on his organs and tells her, “I have to go back. I can’t just leave him there after—after <em>that</em>.”</p><p>Yennefer immediately grabs his arm and squeezes hard enough for it to hurt. “Don’t you <em>dare</em>,” she growls at him, eyes blazing. “We don’t even know if he’s still alive and not to mention that <em>you have a daughter</em>,” she continues, punctuating the last few words enough to halt his thoughts.</p><p>She is right, of course. She always is.</p><p>“I like him, Geralt. I really do,” she says, softer this time. “But Ciri doesn’t need him. She needs <em>you</em>, no matter how much she likes Jaskier too. Neither of us knows what’s waiting for you there if you go back and Ciri can’t afford to lose another family. We promised him to run the other way for her, don’t sully that promise.”</p><p>Geralt hates it when she is right.</p><p>“If he’s alright, he promised to come back,” he says quietly, more to convince himself than as an agreement to her words. Geralt will not sully this promise and he hopes that Jaskier will not sully his own. “He knows the way back.”</p><p>He glances pass his shoulder one last time before offering out a helping hand to Yennefer. “Let’s go,” he murmurs to her and the both of them make their way back to where Ciri awaits, one less in their band than she is expecting.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always, your love and reviews on this are very much welcome x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. My kingdom for a kiss upon his shoulder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i just think soft geralt is neat</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He does not remember much. His memories merely a rush of colours that he cannot pick apart for careful scrutinization.</p><p>But he does remember desperate kisses and distress in bright amber. He remembers <em>Geralt</em>.</p><p>And he remembers a punch to the gut that took away far more than simply his comfort. He remembers sneering lips and cruel tongue saying, “Here lies the war god, silver skin laced with golden blood that is no longer pure. A breach in nature. A breach I will no longer tolerate.”</p><p>He remembers <em>mother</em>.</p><p>And after her, for a long while there was nothing but deafening silence and deep darkness. Nothing but grief, desolation and fear reached for him as he laid limp on the ground, wide eyes staring up at the lightening sky and breaths coming out in pathetic wheezes.</p><p>He was cold.</p><p>He was empty,</p><p>He was alone.</p><p>Then suddenly there were hands on him—unfamiliar but kind as they fussed over him. And he breathed out a long, tired breath, eyes slipping close as darkness swallowed him whole.</p><p>And now, here he exists, at the edge of her bed with his head in his trembling hands, eyes trained on his tapping feet. He can hear the blood rushing in his veins, his heart thumping loudly in his chest and his breaths stuttering out of his lungs. All limbs accounted for. All wounds wrapped and tended to—he <em>knows</em> this but a part of him is still <em>missing</em>.</p><p>And no amount of bandages or salves will ever return it to him.</p><p>“There must be <em>someone</em> waiting for you out there,” Shani says tentatively as she crouches in front of him and the smell of warm stew immediately invades his senses. “A family or a friend—<em>someone</em>.”</p><p>And when he utters not a word in return, the young healer sighs. And he <em>knows</em> that she is frowning at him without needing to spare her a glance. He can almost <em>taste</em> disappointment curling in the air between them without having her say another word to him.</p><p>But, he thinks, these information come to him only because he is already well-versed in mortal behaviour and not—upsettingly enough, because of some godly intuition.</p><p><em>No, no</em>, he muses to himself as a bitter smile carves its way across his face. That is <em>long</em> gone now.</p><p>“Look,” she says and he <em>hears</em> her patience wearing thin. “I’d take you in if I could but this hut can barely accommodate <em>me</em>. I can afford to look after you for a couple of days at most but—” Shani cuts herself off and sighs once more.</p><p>Then in a softer tone, “I didn’t even get your name.”</p><p>Her words startle him for a moment. Almost similar to the ones Lucia jabbed him with all those years ago.</p><p>And he thinks, <em>what does it matter?</em> Mother ripped his nature straight from his core. Took away who he is in the blink of an eye without much effort. She left him empty—merely a hollowed out fruit in this moment and the thousands more to come. Nothing more and—was he ever meant to be something <em>more</em>?</p><p>He curls his fingers around his hair and tugs at it with frustration. He thinks of his mismatched eyes. He thinks of this body that is familiar to him and yet so, <em>so</em> strange to be in without his nature to make it all make sense.</p><p>Then aloud, he finally says, “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>He spends days trying to adjust his grip around this newfound emptiness inside of him—this overwhelming feeling of being <em>incomplete</em>, because there is simply nothing else he can do about it. And it takes him longer, <em>far</em> longer than he thought it would.</p><p>Days stretch into weeks before turning into long months of trying to gather all pieces of himself.</p><p>He wants nothing more than to sprint home. He would even crawl his way back if need be. He would have given <em>everything</em> to return to Geralt’s gentle touches and Ciri’s warm words this instance but no, he will not do <em>that</em> to them. He will not return unsteady on his own feet with less to offer them of himself.</p><p>He <em>refuses</em> to do that to them.</p><p>And so he takes a little more time to learn how to walk on his own, to be someone they will welcome back without hesitance. He learns to close his wounds and to wait until angry red scars turn milky white. Until they become nothing more than distant memories. Memories that will not interfere with their future.</p><p>And before he realizes it, the time of the white frost has come and gone.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>(1268)</em> </strong>
</p><p>He is in Posada when it happens.</p><p>Well, to be more precise, he is in a humble inn called ‘<em>The Swinging</em> <em>Duck’</em>, arguing with a tall man, packed with nothing but muscles when it happens.</p><p>Now, the question of why he is here in the first place is an important one.</p><p>Rumour has it that <em>this</em> particular patron of <em>The Swinging Duck</em> has been going around town, rambling on about a certain beauty dressed in black. Striking violet eyes. Deep midnight hair. Deathly red lips. All traits of none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg.</p><p>He thinks if he can track down Yennefer, then she will be able to find Geralt and Ciri for him. And perhaps, if he behaves well enough around her, she might even be generous enough to portal him straight to them—straight <em>home</em>.</p><p>The snow has long thawed outside. It has been nearly a month since the white frost gave way to all kinds of flowers to splash colours into the world once more. He knows enough to take that as a sign that Geralt and perhaps, Ciri too, are long gone from the safety of the keep by now. And there is simply <em>no way</em> for him to find them in <em>this</em> state. So as much as he loathes to admit it, he needs Yennefer—or at least, someone well-versed in the language of chaos.</p><p>He needs <em>help</em>.</p><p>And so here he is, shouting profanities to a man who towers over him by a good few inches, in a humble inn in Posada. In return, the man tells him that if he does not stop asking for the whereabouts of the beautiful lady, then he will have to taste the mighty wrath of Eryk, son of Florian.</p><p>And for a moment, he forgets himself.</p><p>He forgets where he stands in the world now and so he laughs, loud and unrestrained. “<em>Mighty</em> wrath,” he echoes mockingly because mortals have neither the will nor the nature to produce such a thing.</p><p>Then abruptly, he stops. And he thinks, <em>oh</em>.</p><p>They are all one and the same now.</p><p>And the man barrels into him with a crazed cry that is heavy with anger.</p><p>He collides into several stools before the both of them crash to the ground and the floorboards creak loudly under their combined weight. He groans in pain while the man raises both fists, ready to strike when the inn door swings open and slams so loudly against the wall that the entire place falls silent. Heads slowly turn and eyes immediately fall on the hulking figure blocking the entrance, including his own.</p><p>And the sight takes his breath away because right there, stands a warrior. The only glorious one he has ever come across.</p><p>Geralt is beautiful, glowing as bright as the sun even when his hair is unkempt, his face splattered with the stinking blood of a monster, his skin pale as the winter that has long passed with black veins crawling up every inch of it. And his eyes—oh, his <em>eyes</em>. No more than the colour of ink.</p><p>And when pitch black meets his mismatched ones, he fails to stifle the sob that claws its way out of his throat. Not out of fear, no. Quite the opposite, actually.</p><p>“<em>Jaskier</em>,” Geralt says, fitting countless of emotions into that single word. Into that name that no longer belongs to him. There is sadness and disbelief curling around each letter. But there is also warmth in it and love—such intense love.</p><p>And somehow, it feels easier to breathe now.</p><p>And the world, well, it seems less cruel than what he thinks of it.</p><p>He is home.</p><p>Pitch black eyes dart to the man atop of him and narrow. “Get <em>off</em> him,” Geralt snarls, shoulders squaring and fingers curling into tight fists. The man splutters and immediately scrambles off and away when Geralt takes one step toward them, and a quick glare all around has everyone snapping their heads away from the white wolf and his—well, his <em>something</em>.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” is all he manages from where he lays on the sticky floor while Geralt crouches next to him.</p><p>And for a long moment, neither of them speak.</p><p>Then Geralt holds one gloved hand out to him, pitch black eyes darting from the top of his head to the tip of his boots before a frown appears. And he knows what Geralt sees. Dishevelled hair. Mud-stained clothes. Dirt and scratches littering exposed skin. And he thinks, <em>this is it</em>. He has failed to stand steady on his own feet and now, Geralt will turn and leave. For good, this time.</p><p>“Come on,” Geralt calls to him gently instead and a small smile carves its away across that face. “I’ve got a room upstairs and you seem like you could use a hot bath.”</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if mother took his intelligence along with his nature because he realizes that not once did it occur to him to ask around town for the <em>witcher</em> first, rather than diving head-first for the <em>sorceress</em>. At least, even in his current state, one is definitely more tangible than the other. And he wants to slam his head against the wall for it.</p><p>But he does not.</p><p>Instead he stands still in the middle of Geralt’s room, fingers fiddling anxiously with his coarse cloak as one of the maids scurry out the door after filling the tub with hot water. He watches silently as steam curls in the air and holds back a relieved sigh. He has not had a decent bath for nearly an entire week now—the rivers far too cold still for a quick dip and the warm baths offered at inns are always far too expensive for him to afford one.</p><p>“Well, in you get.”</p><p>He blinks before his eyes dart to where Geralt stands at the other side of the room, loosening leather armour with skilled fingers.</p><p>“I’ll jump in after you’re done,” he says to the witcher quickly. “You need it more than I do,” he adds after a brief pause and gestures a hand toward the blood smattering pale skin.</p><p>Geralt grunts as he piles his armour neatly against one wall. Those inky black eyes are gone now and so are the equally dark veins. And when Geralt stares at him like this—in the witcher’s natural state, he cannot bring himself to look into those amber eyes which stare at him tenderly. And so he glances away. To the tub. To his feet. To anywhere else but the one person he has long to lay his eyes on.</p><p>“I’ll use the water from the basin to clean the blood off, so <em>get in</em>, Jaskier.”</p><p>And he <em>feels</em> the sharp glare directed at him more than sees it.</p><p>And he <em>hears</em> how the witcher will not take another ‘<em>no</em>’ for an answer.</p><p>And so his fingers drift up to peel off each articles of clothing from his skin while Geralt turns to face the sink, granting him an ounce of privacy until he is properly submerged in the hot bath. He leans back, puffs out a heavy sigh and allows the silence to stretch for another minute before he whispers, “It’s no longer mine.”</p><p>The floorboards creak as Geralt moves from the wash basin and he watches quietly as the witcher rifles through a pack on the table, fishing out for vials and a bar of soap. Then Geralt drags forward a stool until only the wall of the tub separates the both of them and sits down, his back to Geralt’s front.</p><p>“Dunk your head,” Geralt murmurs from behind. “Let me wash your hair for you.”</p><p>“I—” he stops and thinks better than to argue. So he takes in a deep breath before doing as he is told.</p><p>Once his hair is dripping wet, he hears a <em>pop</em> as Geralt uncorks one of the vials and smiles when he catches the faint scent of peppermint in the air. And then there are gentle fingers combing through his hair, lathering each strands with the liquid.</p><p>“What is?” Geralt asks him softly and when he hums questioningly in return, the witcher tries once more. “What is no longer yours?”</p><p>He tenses and the fingers in his hair still for a moment. “The name,” he tells Geralt. “I don’t deserve to wear the name anymore.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>He tilts his head back enough for their eyes to meet. “When we first met,” he begins. “You said that I smelt neither of human blood nor that of the elves. Tell me now, what do I smell of?”</p><p>Geralt takes a second to properly scent the air and then he chokes on the realization, eyes widening and breaths stuttering out from his lungs as if he has been punched. “What—” he stops and swallows. “What did she <em>do</em> to you?”</p><p>He focuses on the water once more while one of his hands drift up to clutch at his chest, where his heart still thuds loudly. He is still alive, is he not? He should be thankful for that. Thankful that mother did not strike him straight down to the underworld but—</p><p>But it still <em>hurts</em>. To live and to breathe knowing that this gnawing emptiness inside of him will be with him until the end of days.</p><p>He realizes he has been quiet for far too long when Geralt rests his forehead against the back of his head, uncaring of everything else and warm breaths caress the nape of his neck every few seconds. And then the witcher whispers, “Talk to me, my love.”</p><p>And just like that, he <em>breaks</em>.</p><p>A sob crawls out from deep within him and he feels his entire body shakes as he begins to spill, “I wanted to come back to you so much earlier but Geralt, I’m so <em>human</em> now and it scares me <em>so much</em>. It scares me that you won’t accept me like this—helpless and so <em>empty</em>. I was afraid—still am, that you’ll turn me away. I don’t think I can handle knowing that I’m finally, <em>truly</em> alone in this big world.”</p><p>“Jaskier—”</p><p>He makes a noise of protest only to immediately be shut down.</p><p>“No, no, don’t. <em>Jaskier</em>—that name will forever be <em>yours</em>. Lucia gave you that name not because of your power, the thing that made you a god. She gave you that name for who you truly are to her, with or without that power,” Geralt tells him, voice hard as steel but touches remaining light against his skin. “And who you truly are is someone she loved. And Jaskier, you—” Geralt’s voice cracks, leaking sadness into the room and his heart clenches at the sound. “You’re not alone. Ciri loves you. <em>I</em> love you. We won’t <em>ever</em> turn you away.”</p><p>“But I can no longer offer you anything,” he whispers in return.</p><p>There is a clatter from behind him that he registers as the sound of the stool toppling to the floor. And then Geralt is right next to him, rough hands reaching out to cup his face, fingers curling around wet locks. And the witcher brings them closer to one another until there is no longer a way for him to avoid those bright amber.</p><p>“This is <em>not</em> a trade. I love you regardless of whether you can give me anything in return for it. You have to know that your power was just something that came along with you, nothing more but nothing less either. Jaskier,” Geralt pauses and the silence is deafening between them. Then, “You are <em>enough</em>.”</p><p>A shaky, wet laugh bubbles out from his chest and he shakes his head while Geralt frowns. “It’s hard to agree to that when all I can feel is this sense of being incomplete,” he admits and fails to keep the tremble from his voice.</p><p>“I know, my love. I know,” Geralt soothes immediately before leaning forward and presses a tender kiss on one corner of his lips, then his cheek and the tip of his nose. And when he allows his eyes to slip shut, a couple of tears make their way down to his chin. And Geralt kisses them away too. “It will take time—a <em>lot</em> of it for you to feel like yourself again but time is all we have now, Jaskier, and if you’ll allow it, Ciri and I will help you out every step of the way.”</p><p>It takes him some time—too long, he thinks but Geralt waits patiently until he nods, slow and full of uncertainty but granting them his full consent nonetheless.</p><p>“Good,” Geralt says and there is a hint of a smile in the witcher’s voice.</p><p>With his eyes still screwed shut, he winds his arms around Geralt’s neck and pulls the witcher even closer to him until naked skin presses up again the rough fabric of Geralt’s chemise and he is able to bury his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck.</p><p>“Say it again,” he murmurs into hot skin, smelling of sweat and horse. <em>Roach</em>, he thinks. Oh, how strongly he has missed her as well.</p><p>Geralt trails a finger up and down the knobs of his spine and softly asks, “Say what?”</p><p>“The name,” he answers. Then, “<em>My</em> name.”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers and presses a kiss on the side of his head. “Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, louder this time before leaving a kiss on his shoulder. And once more, the witcher carves the name onto his skin until slowly, he tries to accept it.</p><p>“I love you,” he whispers in return and presses his own kiss on Geralt’s neck, where the witcher’s pulse beats steadily.</p><p>Geralt hums, contented and curls strong arms tighter around his body.</p><p>And they stay wrapped in each other for one more moment.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for all the love and support on this. it means a great deal to me to see a lot of you enjoying it.</p><p>have a great day, everyone. much love x</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Our praise is for the ones who bloom in the bitter snow</h2></a>
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    <p>The unfortunate thing about being Destiny is that they get blamed for virtually everything wrong in the universe. Expensive lodgings, monster infestations, cruel kings, children of surprise and well, the list goes on. And yes, alright perhaps they <em>do</em> play an important part in making tomorrow just a little worse than today, no matter how indirect they try to be. <em>But</em>—and this is an incredibly strong but—they do, sometimes, try to make the nights a little easier than the mornings. Try to make the air a little fresher to breathe in, the weather a little warmer and the pain a little less.</p><p>Because the law is simple. In return for what they have ripped from the universe, they must gift. Something. <em>Anything</em>.</p><p>And today, they have gifted to the mortals one tender-hearted spirit—one that is far too gentle to remain with his own kind any longer.</p><p>And from where they lounge up above, where no mortal eyes will bear witness to their existence, a smile stretches across their face as they watch the ashen-haired child pull the one who was once war into a tight hug. The sorceress who stands a small distance away from the child nods her head in acknowledgement to the witcher who stands with a fond smile behind the new mortal.</p><p>For a brief moment, utter silence envelopes the whole universe as everything falls into place once more.</p><p>“Is my darling lute nothing but ashes now, poppet?” they hear him asks, voice light and teasing but the way he clutches the child tightly to him tells them enough of what is true and what is simply a mask.</p><p>“Couldn’t bring myself to burn it,” the child replies quietly into his shoulder, her voice wet with a confusing mixture of relief and sadness. “Not when we thought it was the only piece of you we had left.”</p><p>There is a sharp intake of breath and a pause before he begins blubbering a string of apologies to the child and following it, the words, “I’m home now, I’m finally home, my sweet one.”</p><p>And when mismatched eyes catch the glow of violet ones, with a genuine smile, the sorceress utters, “Welcome home, Jaskier.”</p><p>He grins at that, wide and unabashed.</p><p>“It’s good to be home,” he says.</p><p>And if this was simply another play at a theatre, this moment right here would be when the curtains will fall, signalling to the audience that the story has finally come to an end.</p><p>But it is not.</p><p>The life of the one who was named after the flowers once beloved by a child, has only just begun. And what a life it will be, they think. The white witcher, the most powerful sorceress in the Continent and the child of prophecies for a family.</p><p>What a life it will be, indeed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and so here it ends.</p><p>a thousand thanks to you who have reached this end with me. i started writing this in june and now we're well into november and well, it's been quite the ride. i'm truly glad to have written this and shared it with you, and i hope the same goes for you as well.</p><p>before i go, here's a list of songs that inspired this:<br/>(1) macbeth - jed kurzel <br/>(2) bulanku - sekumpulan orang gila<br/>(3) feel good (stripped) - matt maeson<br/>(4) everytime you leave - sonya belousova, giona ostinelli<br/>(5) dawn of faith - eternal eclipse </p><p>and once more, thank you.</p><p>much love x</p>
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